


Omertá Arc 1: Special Visitors

by FreetheClam



Series: Omertá [1]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Anxiety, Blood and Gore, F/M, Gen, Guns, POV Female Character, Slow Burn, Slurs, TW: Domestic Violence, eventual pairing, everything's like 15YL, like not-happening-in-this-arc slow burn, poorly written villains, swears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2018-10-01 08:59:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 46,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10185695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreetheClam/pseuds/FreetheClam
Summary: When your cheating asshole of a (newly ex-) boyfriend backhanded you across the face, you responded in a manner you thought reasonable and appropriate to the situation.You punched him in the throat.





	1. 0/Prologue – In which Concussions do not Facilitate Good Decision-Making

 

When your cheating asshole of a (newly ex-) boyfriend backhanded you across the face, you responded in a manner you thought reasonable and appropriate to the situation.

You punched him in the throat.

His eyes grew comically large, bulging as he coughed and hacked and clutched at his neck. There were deep scratches on his hands and face from your cat, and the swollen knuckles on his left thumb looked cartoonishly large when next to his uninjured hand. It was almost hilarious, but that might be from his slamming your head against the wall five minutes ago.

Maybe you should back up a few steps.

You mentally tried to run through the questions people were supposed to ask the recently concussed. You remembered your name. You knew your address and the date and who was president. (You felt sick, but that it was a toss-up on whether it came from the blow to the head or the mention of U.S. politics)

Dominic finally managed to gasp in a hoarse breath, and it occurred to you that you should take advantage of his lapse in violence with some aggression of your own. So you grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, his button-down shirt jerking up tight against his bruising throat, and started dragging him toward your front door.

You almost made it. Dominic surged up with a pathetically raspy attempt at a roar and you jerked away; he didn’t go for your neck again—you noted fuzzily that he was smarter than he looked—but his fist glanced off your jaw, the ring on his middle finger creating a sharp spiral of pain you felt to the bone.

You heard Zeus hiss viciously right before the Maine Coon threw all 20-pounds of himself back onto Dominic. You still had a grip on the back of his shirt, and you honestly weren’t quite sure if your bruised brain remembered how to let go, so when he twisted to fend off the pissed off cat you were tugged along with him. You tried to keep your feet under you, and you grabbed at his hand when he got a grip on Zeus.

Both of you were unbalanced, holding onto each other in an awkward, half-sprawled stance, and all you could think was that you’d always hated Twister. Zeus yowled, half angry and half pained because Dominic had a hold of him and damn it but you couldn’t make him let go. So you brought your foot up high, then back down on his knee, putting all your weight into it.

You felt something jerk under your heel, and Dominic let out a healthy wail of pain. Zeus fled deeper into the apartment in a blur of feline rage. You opened your front door and _pulled_ , hefting Dominic out into the hallway. He stumbled and fell against the far wall, grasping at his injured leg, as you slammed and locked the door on the sight.

Taking a moment to breathe deeply, pushing past the pain in your own throat from when the bastard tried to strangle you against your own damn wall, you carefully walked to your kitchen table, grabbed your cell phone, and called Nico.

It took a few tries to unlock your phone, your head throbbing through a cottony veil of gray fog.

The phone rang, and rang. After a few seconds, the teen’s voicemail kicked in. At the beep, you sighed and started your message.

 “Nico, hey.” You cleared your throat, trying to ease the achy roughness in your vocal chords. “I think I need your help.” You took another second to try and focus. Your brain felt vaguely mushy, something you distantly noted was probably a bad sign. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not supposed to call too much. But Dom’s—”

There was a slam against your door, the wood shaking in its frame. The idiot must have tossed himself at it. You heard him start to yell, vulgar threats that should have alarmed you but you were too busy swimming in that gray cloud of concussion-induced apathy.

 “Dom’s kinda trying to kill me,” you said. “He was cheating, so I told him to fuck off, but then he hit me, and I hit him back, and now he’s pissy.”

The door shuddered again.

 “So, yeah, help would be good,” you continued. “Please?”

The phone beeped, telling you the voicemail had stopped recording.

Dominic was still throwing himself at the door. Your neighbors wouldn’t do shit, you knew. This entire building was owned by your boss’s family, and its tenants religiously minded their own business. You didn’t work for the most reputable of people, but Don Fratelli was a good man by most standards—just not the legal ones.

You called Nico again. And again, the phone rang, rang, rang—voicemail.

“Nico, seriously,” you said, and you swallowed thickly to get your voice to stop shaking. It didn’t work. “I’m not gonna lie, I’m pretty sure I’m concussed and I’m honestly pretty fucking scared right now.”

Dominic shouted again, and if the phone hadn’t picked up on it before, you were certain his morbid threats were now immortalized in Nico’s voicemail system. Poor kid.

“So answer your goddamn phone.”

The door made a cracking sound. You yelped and dropped your cell. Swearing, you leaned down to pick it up, but couldn’t keep your balance, the floor tilting oddly as you bent. You teetered and landed on your hands and knees, fighting down a wave of nausea and cursing again as you scrabbled for the cell just in time to hear it beep once more. That distant fuzziness was stubbornly not fading, nor was the sharp ache behind your temples.

So you sat down at the base of your kitchen counter, suddenly exhausted, and called Nico _again_.

It went straight to voicemail. No ringing, no passing Go, no $200.

“Did you just turn off your phone?” you blinked for a moment, hating that your voice was still unsteady and trying desperately to block out the filth Dominic kept screaming through your door. Could you even _do_ that do a dead body? Probably. I mean, it’s _dead_.

“Nico, what the _fuck_?”

The door creaked ominously when Dominic hit it again. How was he even doing that with a busted knee?

“Please, I need you to help me.” Great, now you were begging. This was just humiliating. You tried to take a calming breath, but it shuddered in your lungs and your attempts to firm your voice only made it come out small and frightened. “You promised, Nico…”

You weren’t sure how long you sat there, trembling and whispering to yourself that _he’d promised, goddamn it_ , phone held limply beside you. It couldn’t have been long, but you honestly could not get your brain to track it. Was this what going into shock was like? Or was this the concussion?

At some point Zeus crept partially into your lap. His fur was on end, and he was growling, muscles tense as he faced the clamor at your door.

Shit, the door.

You could make out a few cracks now, and Dominic was too vindictive to give up. It didn’t sound like he was getting his strength behind it though—he probably really was just tossing himself at it like an oversized bag of potatoes.

A giggle bubbled up your throat, small and high and more than a little hysterical, and Zeus shifted his weight, ear flicking back to you while he opened his mouth in full-bodied hiss.

Damn, but your head hurt so much. You wished Dominic would stop trying to break down your door—the slamming created a dull boom in your brain every time. You were supposed to call Nico if you got in trouble. He’d promised to help.

Blinking blearily and hating that stupid fogginess in your head, you raised your phone and fumbled with the electronic lock. You needed to call help, or Dominic would get inside. He’d get inside and make good on all those horrible threats he’d been making. You knew he could—you were pretty sure it was his job.

You stared at your phone, feeling a sob try to rip out of you. It was a bad idea. You knew it was. It would be a fuck up to end all fuck ups. But goddamn it what were you supposed to do? Nico wasn’t answering. He’d promised, and he wasn’t answering.

You closed your eyes and then hit the buttons, listening as the phone rang, and then a pleasant, calm voice answered. She asked you several questions, and you answered them as clearly as your sluggish brain allowed. Dominic was still yelling, and from the tension in the operator’s voice, you knew she could hear him.

Your heart was pounding, making the pain in your skull almost unbearable. It was only a few minutes. Faster than you’d expected, but you supposed they couldn’t resist a call to _this_ apartment building, not when they were so rare.

The yelling at your door reached a sudden crescendo, and you whimpered and pressed your hands to your ears.

“Ma’am, are you all right?”

Your movements had pressed your cell flat against your ear, and the pleasantly calm voice was now a bit too loud, a bit too close.

 “My head hurts.” Your voice was a little slurred, sounding pretty much how your thoughts felt as you dragged them to the forefront. “I hit it on the wall when he was choking me.”

 “An ambulance is on its way, ma’am,” the operator said. “The officers are on the scene. Just stay on the line with me, all right?”

You murmured something—you weren’t even sure what it was—but the yelling at your door faded, growing distant. You sighed in relief, and while the throbbing in your head was still a constant rhythm between your ears, the suffocating feeling was easing. Dominic wasn’t at the door; he wasn’t getting inside. The slamming didn’t come back, but there was a firm knock.

 “Someone’s at the door,” you mumbled, still high on the blessed silence.

 “Just a moment, ma’am.”

You blinked into the pause, watching Zeus keep perfectly still at his post. He was still wound up tight, still half in your lap, half between you and the door. There was the sound of a voice talking outside, then the pleasant voice was back.

 “Ma’am, the officer is at your door. Please open it for him.”

 “What?” You frowned, a bit of alarm pricking through your fog of pain and syrupy thoughts. “No.”

You heard a series of hard raps as the officer knocked again before the door creaked and a small, wooden snap reached your ears. “Ma’am, I’m coming inside.”

Zeus spat angrily as a figure eased your door open, his hackles quivering. You felt that hint of alarm start to spike, because you were very certain the latch had not been so damaged as to break simply with someone knocking on the door. Right?

The man knelt, keeping a wary distance from Zeus’s considerable reach. “Ma’am, the EMTs will be up shortly. Did you know you’re bleeding?”

You just stared at him, renewed fear slowly sinking through the layers of cotton in your skull.

The officer shifted slowly, and then there was a bright light as he shined a penlight into your eyes. You winced, inhaling sharply in pain and trying to cover your eyes. The movement jostled Zeus, and with a final, angry growl he dashed for your bedroom.

 “Your eyes are dilated,” the officer said. 

You wondered for a moment if he actually knew what he was talking about or if he was just pulling it out of his ass. Were you supposed to feel better thinking he was first-aid certified or something? And what the fuck did he _mean_? Your eyes were dilated—so what? Apparently you were bleeding, but _no_ , that wasn’t the real concern here ‘cause hold the presses _your eyes were dilated_.

 “Ma’am, can you tell me what happened?”

You took a deep breath as the suffocating feeling started creeping back in. You had to think. You had to _be careful_. Because you were right—you had seriously fucked up.

You’d called the cops.

So you did what you felt was the only rational thing to do in your situation. You looked the man in the eyes and _lied through your fucking teeth._

_[The Next Morning]_

 

Nico picked you up from the hospital, face scrunched with guilt whenever he could work up the courage to make eye contact.

The EMTs had insisted you go to the ER, and the ER doctor had taken one look at your bleeding jaw and the goose-egg behind your right ear and promptly decided you were staying overnight.

X-rays showed a hairline crack in your jaw, your trachea was bruised, you had a black eye, and yes, the doctor said, you were _very concussed_.

You were given strict orders—no electronic screens, no reading, no work or strain whatsoever to your brain; you were only supposed to rest, preferably in a dim, quiet place.

“What am I, a mushroom?” you groused. 

Nico didn’t laugh. He was frowning intensely at the car in front of him, as though the driver of it were the sole cause of the traffic that morning.

“How am I supposed to get my work done without a screen?” you whined.

Nico shifted, flashing you a sheepish look before returning to staring dourly at the poor Pontiac.

You sighed. “Nico, what gives? You’ve said like three words to me all morning.” And all were variations of ‘I’m so sorry,’ but you didn’t think mentioning that would help right now.

Nico shifted again, clearly uncomfortable. He shot you another glance, his brow pinched, and while your brain still felt swaddled in three pounds of molasses, his obvious anxiety was making you uneasy.

“Just say it?” You said. “Please?”

There was a pause before the teen spoke. “Dad’s angry.”

His voice was quiet, tense, and a little small. You suddenly thought that this is how he must have been as a child, before his limbs had grown long and lanky and copious amounts of gel became his primary method of haircare.

“How angry?” you asked, taking a shot at frowning at the Pontiac. It didn’t seem to help. Maybe you weren’t doing it right?

“ _Really_ angry,” Nico mumbled, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. “Some…people are coming this summer. Important people. From Italy.” He glanced at you.

“Right,” you said, carefully massaging your temples. “And having a secretary of the…CEO’s talking to the authorities a few months beforehand looks _really bad_.” You took a deep breath, then let it out with a curse.

“Yeah,” Nico said. “Fuck.”

You didn’t chide him to watch his language. You weren’t his teacher anymore and you were certainly in no place to tell the Fratelli heir what to do. _Especially_ not now. You’d called the cops on a member of the family, and whether or not you’d actually said a damn thing to them didn’t matter—you were a narc now.

“Am I blacklisted?”

Nico flinched. “What? No!” He met your eyes fully and held them, his face so full of…everything that you wanted to comfort _him_. “Dad would never do that--not to you.” His expression hardened, and he narrowed his eyes back at the Pontiac out front as it finally started to inch forward. “Theo and I wouldn’t let him.”

You took a careful breath, feeling like a temporal ping-pong ball at the sudden vision of the next Don Fratelli. Nico was surely a cute, earnest child, but he was certainly going to be a fierce Boss. And Theo, the devoted younger brother, would no doubt become an equally devoted right hand.

“Okay,” you said as you exhaled slowly. “Where does that leave us then?”

“Probation,” Nico said, quiet again but not mumbling anymore. “Dom’s been moved out of state,” he gave you a pointed look that you were sure was supposed to be comforting, but it looked too much like a young rooster trying to strut without his comb. “Theo and I have extra…training”—you knew better than to inquire more into _that_ topic—“and you’re on probation.”

You spent the next few minutes eying the scratches on the Pontiac’s back bumper before it finally turned onto a side road. “Well,” you said. “That’s surprisingly lenient.”

“You’re welcome,” Nico said.

You sighed wearily, hands coming up to cover your aching face. “Thank you, Nico.” You reached over to give his shoulder a squeeze; the tension in them was finally starting to ease. “And Theo. Thank you both.”

Nico lifted his chin a fraction, scratching at his nose as he tried to pull off a nonchalant shrug. “No biggie. We owe you, don’t we?”

You didn’t want to get into that old argument, not with molasses-brain anyway, so you just smiled and said “And now I owe you,” and then let the matter drop.

“Do me a favor, then?” Nico asked suddenly. He sent you an apprehensive glance.

“Always.” You didn’t even hesitate. You never did, not for the Fratelli boys.

 “When the Vongola get here in July, _keep your head down_.”

 

 

 


	2. In which Good Intentions Pave your Personal Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arc 1 - The Visitation  
> -~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-  
> The gun went off, a deafening crack that reeked of gunpowder and something sulfuric. There was a spray of wet and red, a sickly spattering sound that seemed to stick in your brain as readily as it smeared the wall.
> 
> For one long, horrible moment, no one moved.
> 
>  -~-~-~-~-~-[10 Days Earlier]-~-~-~-~-~-

 

 

 

“‘Listen you little shits, you’re going to even the fuck out or I’m going to use your ones as chopsticks while I devour your goddamned soul.”’

Vittoria lifted her gaze from the sticky-note you’d slapped onto your spreadsheet printout. The look she gave you was the epitome of concerned.

“What did the numbers do to you this time?”

“Did you not just read the note?” you said, carefully arranging and rearranging items on your desk. “They won’t even out. There’s an error in there _somewhere_ , I just need to find it.”

“So you’re threatening them. The numbers. You’re threatening the numbers.”

“I never said I was a nice person,” you said.

Vittoria kept giving you _that_ look.

You elected to ignore her. You knew damn well Vittoria was just giving you a hard time. Hell, you were pretty sure she _looked forward_ to finding your venting-notes, ever since she first found one on a presentation outline that you couldn’t, for the life of you, edit down to under ten minutes. It was your way of letting off steam, taking a break so you could come back later to tackle whatever frustration had gotten the better of you.

Okay, maybe it was a little weird. You’d picked it up in college when essays were driving you into a long, sleepless purgatory, but you _always_ removed the notes when you were done! So no harm, no foul.

Vittoria was undeterred by your nonchalant act, and her contemplative _hmmm_ was distinctly unconvinced. Still, she set the printout down and mercifully dropped the subject. “So, lunch today?”

The “of course” was barely out of your mouth when your phone rang. The Caller ID indicated it was Jacob, the Fratelli’s private chauffer.

“Hi Jacob, how can I help you?” you answered, sending Vittoria an apologetic smile. She waved it off; you were both secretaries, and some business did not wait. The call was fairly brief, just confirmation that yes, Mr. Fratelli’s guests really did request soft drinks and _not_ liquor in the car, as well as a few other minor details, before Jacob was off the line again.

When you looked back up, Vittoria was giving you an alarmed expression. The second you disconnected the call, she leaned in close. “What do you mean, Mr. Fratelli’s ‘guests’?”

“I meant precisely that,” you answered, tucking the nearly-forgotten spreadsheet back into your ‘pending’ stack. “Mr. Fratelli’s guests are arriving this morning and Jacob was worried about a few of the logistics.”

“Aren’t you…still on probation?” Vittoria had the good grace to keep her voice lowered.

“Yes,” you said carefully, keeping your tone neutral, “but Mr. Fratelli put Marguerite in charge of arranging their visit. She had an exam this morning, and she was worried about studying _and_ prepping the final arrangements.”

Vittoria inhaled carefully, her expression betraying every emotion she felt in response to your answer.

Marguerite meant well, but she was essentially the equivalent of a college intern—and Nico’s girlfriend. She was very sweet, but also very new to secretarial roles, and very, _very_ worried about letting her boyfriend’s father down. She had shyly asked you for advice, which had somehow turned into your mentoring her. You normally wouldn’t mind, except you’d promised Nico to steer clear of these ‘guests’ and Don Fratelli had made it clear he wanted you _completely out_ of…that side of the Family business. Which is why you were crunching numbers for the (legitimate) shipping branch.

“How long will they be here?” Vittoria asked.

“A few weeks,” you answered, shrugging. Two, they were here two weeks—13 days to be exact, but you weren’t about to tell her you knew anything that specific. “I’m only lending a hand, and I will _not_ be going anywhere near them. Marguerite asked me to check on a few things, and then I’m stepping back entirely.”

The sound Vittoria made was the very definition of skeptical. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” she said, raising a delicately manicured finger. “And you know my feelings are never wrong.”

“I have every confidence in her,” you said, smiling. Marguerite was a smart young lady, and you liked working with her. “Now that she’s done with that test and everything’s all but taken care of, I won’t be needed anymore.”

Vittoria pursed her lips. “My feelings,” she reiterated with a pointed look, “are _never_ wrong.”

“How about I call in sick tomorrow?” you asked, trying to placate your friend. “And I’ll stay away from the office all day. Better?”

“No, but it’ll have to do.” Vittoria sighed dramatically and returned to her office.

The morning went by quietly, which you took as a blessing. No frantic calls, no fires to put out, and Marguerite texted you a quick “Thank you! <3” after her exam period. You smiled as you sent a quick reply, mentally washing your hands of Fratelli’s guests. Marguerite should have no troubles without that exam looming over her head. You even found the error in the spreadsheet—a number had been inverted at one point, putting everything else out of order—and you were feeling terribly accomplished when noon rolled around.

Every Wednesday you and Vittoria went to lunch at _Aguas Azules_ , a Mexican restaurant near the office building you worked in. The Fratelli’s technically owned it, but they technically owned everything in this part of the city, so that meant little to you.

In fact, Marguerite would probably like it. You’d mentioned your and Vittoria’s weekly lunches to her when you were first getting acquainted, and she’d seemed very interested. You made a mental note to ask Vittoria about inviting her after the Fratelli guests leave. If Marguerite were going to stay involved with Nico, then _Aguas Azules_ was not a bad spot for her to know about. Considering its proximity to the Family’s main offices, there was almost always _someone_ from the Family patronizing the restaurant.

And so you floated the idea to Vittoria when you arrived and thought little of the three suited gentlemen in Nico’s favorite corner booth, strategically arranged to give those seated a good view of the front entrance and the kitchen doors. You thought vaguely that Nico probably favored that table because of the training you weren’t allowed to ask about, and then promptly ignored it.

Until you had just started in on your lunch, and you saw Nico, Theo, and Marguerite stroll in and approach the group. Nico blanched when he saw you, and Theo just _grinned_. But Marguerite smiled and waved, leading the boys to the corner table as though nothing were amiss. The three seated men stood and there was much shaking of hands and kissing of cheeks before everyone settled down again.

You swallowed the morsel in your mouth and met Vittoria’s eye. She glanced in the corner, smirked at you, and took a long, satisfied drink of her soda. Her expression was worth a thousand ‘I told you so’s.

You stiffened your spine and continued to eat. You were here every Wednesday; pretty much everyone knew that. It was probably stupid, keeping such a regular schedule, but it had never been an issue before. You were a head secretary; sometimes people needed to be able to find you. And now it gave you an excuse, because if Don Fratelli even suspected you were trying to horn in on his guests’ visit you’d be in the fucking river, no matter how his sons protested.

It took a while, but you eventually convinced yourself that this was fine. No big deal. Everything was _fine_.

And then a very tall man dragged a chair over and plunked himself next to you.

Vittoria stared up at him. You stared up at him. He smiled cheerfully back.

You shot a glance back to the corner booth. There were now two men, both watching the tall one with varying expressions of unbelieving exasperation and long-suffering patience, while Nico sat with his face in his hands, Marguerite looked incredibly uncertain, and Theo was grinning like a fiend.

You flicked your gaze back to the tall stranger.

“Hello,” he said. His English was heavily accented.

“Hello,” you said, pasting a hasty smile on. It didn’t fit your face well, even you could tell. “Can we help you?”

His smile dimmed a fraction before the wattage kicked back up. “Hello!” he said again.

Vittoria snorted, but hid it quickly in a cough.

“Um, Italiano?” you tried. When his grin _somehow_ brightened, you added sheepishly, “Il mio italiano non è buono.” Which was a major understatement—your Italian was as smooth as chunky peanut butter.

But Mr. Tall, Dark, and…yeah, pretty Handsome actually, seemed undeterred, simply giving you both a cheerful “Ciao!”

“Okay,” you said, nodding. “Okay.”

Your visitor parroted it back at you happily, probably because it was a word he recognized as positive, and you turned to Vittoria. “Entertain him, please.”

You were on your feet while she sputtered out a “Wha—how—wait!” You sent Nico a strict, no-nonsense look. It was as effective now as it was when you were still his writing tutor, because he stood up like you’d hit a button and, shoving Theo back into his seat when the younger teen tried to follow, made his way over to you.

“Shall we step aside?” you asked, but Nico apparently wasn’t having it.

“You’re not supposed to be here!” he hissed the second he was close enough.

You sent him a bland expression. “I’m here every Wednesday.”

“I told you to _keep your head down_.”

You gave your visitor a pointed look, but Tall and Dark was just smiling cheerfully at both of you. Vittoria was glaring, though. She mouthed something about ‘feelings’ to you. You took a deep, calming breath.

“I’ll ask again, shall we step aside?”

“No! You’re going home and staying there,” Nico said, crossing his arms. You were sure he meant his tone to brook no argument, but it just rubbed you as domineering. “If Dad finds—”

“Excuse you,” you interrupted, raising a finger and giving him the Teacher Look again. His mouth snapped shut with a quiet click. “I’m not going to shirk my responsibilities because of a logistical snafu. I have work to do, and I will do it.”

“You can’t do your work if you’re…indisposed.” Nico actually looked a bit frightened beneath his bravado. Good lord, what has Don Fratelli been telling him? “If Dad finds out you met them…”

“I haven’t met anyone,” you said, letting your voice drop out of the strict tone to become more soothing. “I’m just eating lunch like I _always_ do.”

Nico sighed, glancing at the tall man. The teen made his own attempt at a smile, and he said something in Italian you could barely make out as an apology.

The tall man just laughed, shrugging and answering so casually that you’d think Nico had interrupted Tall and Dark’s lunch with you. Nico shifted his stance, clearly trying to nudge the man back to their own table with his body language, but he either didn’t get the hint or didn’t care. He stretched himself out, impossibly long legs lounging as he made himself more comfortable in what was not really that comfortable of a chair.

And then Nico startled, biting back a gasp as a new voice interrupted his slightly one-sided discussion with Tall and Dark. 

“Why don’t you join us?”

It was a very _calm_ voice, soothing and mid-range, with only the barest hint of a lilt in the vowels. Brunette, middling height, amicable and easy smile. He shot a glance to Tall and Dark, who stood immediately.

“I apologize for Yamamoto’s forwardness,” he said. “He can be rather bold when the mood strikes him.” He gave a small bow, pausing a moment before smiling sheepishly and offering his hand. “My name is Sawada Tsunayoshi. Please, allow us to treat you to lunch for your troubles.”

Nico looked aghast, shooting a look back at the table to Theo. But Theo was talking animatedly to the third man—silvery long hair and a disgruntled expression—and gesticulating rapidly. The young teen glanced back at you and waved you over excitedly, like this was a fantastic development arranged just for him.

Nico made a noise, struggling to hold back his immediate and vehement rejection of the idea. It would _not_ be good to offend these men.

“Oh, we couldn’t possibly impose,” you interjected, pulling on all your receptionist experience for the blandly polite smile you plaster on. “But you’re very kind to offer.”

“I insist,” Sawada said. “Any friend of Nico Fratelli’s is a friend of ours.” He gave you a soft smile, but there was a touch of an edge to it that you didn’t quite trust. “After all, it wouldn’t do to be rude.”

A glance at Tall and Dark—Yamamoto, was it?—and you were treated with a smile that was pure mischief. You were struck with the distinct impression that he had planned this. But that didn’t make any sort of sense, so you disregarded the thought as quickly as it came.

“Of course, sir,” Nico choked out, looking pale. “We’ll need to have chairs brought from—”

Sawada waved him off. “No need, we’ll just bring these.”

As if on cue, Yamamoto grabbed his and your empty chairs, nodding to Vittoria as he dragged them back to the corner booth. The three of you watched, shocked, as he returned and carefully picked up your plates, holding them as expertly as if he’d been raised serving tables.

You heard Silver and Grumpy growl something at him as he set the plates down, but he just laughed and said something back in what sounded like an Asian language. You weren’t sure which, and you didn’t have the expertise to try a guess, so you didn’t.

Vittoria slowly stood up, and Nico robotically put his hand on your lower back to escort you to the table.

“My feelings,” Vittoria mumbled near your ear, “are _never, ever wrong_.”

 

 


	3. In which Friendship Makes Life Difficult

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Visitation Arc
> 
> (12 Days Left)

 

For a solid five minutes after the polite round of introductions (Silver and Grumpy was apparently one Gokudera Hayato), everyone just sat there in a vaguely awkward silence. Sawada watched you all with a serene expression, eyes flickering between each of you and not bothering to hide his curiosity. As if by some unspoken agreement, nether of his companions tried to relieve the increasingly oppressive atmosphere.

“This is a wonderful place,” Marguerite piped up, unable to bear the quiet any longer. “I can see why you two come here so regularly.”

Vittoria nodded and smiled. You hummed noncommittally, but then Nico sent you something of a nasty look and your ire spiked. You met his look with a perfectly innocent expression.

“Every Wednesday,” you said, injecting as much sunshine you could into the two words and not once moving your gaze off Nico. He broke eye contact first, grumbling something under his breath and settling into a minor sulk.

Sawada cleared his throat, an overly-friendly smile on his face. “Yes,” he said. “Marguerite was telling us how much she admired you.”

Marguerite flushed and sputtered, Theo looked like the Cheshire cat, and you just frowned. Is that why he had insisted on your and Vittoria’s joining them? Because Marguerite said something about your position in the Family? She wasn’t herself an official member, and so she didn’t really know about your probation—or at least, none of the…finer details.

“I’m sure she was exaggerating,” you said, casting the young woman a small smile to soften the words.

She didn’t make eye-contact, staring into her food with red-tipped ears.

“Nah, it’s true,” Theo piped in—always so helpful, that one. “You’ve been Dad’s head secretary for, what, four years? We’d be lost without you.”

You gave him a quelling look. “Now you _are_ exaggerating,” you answered. Theo sent you a pleading look and you could almost hear his whine of ‘come _on_.’ You ignored it. Seriously, what was Theo thinking, just _giving_ these ‘guests’ that kind of information? What the hell had he been saying to them? To Gokudera while Nico was distracted at your table?

“We have no such thing as a head secretary,” you continued. “I mostly handle shipping details.”

 “Humble, as always,” Theo said, his tone loftier than usual; he ran a hand through his hair in a gesture he probably thought made him look mature. At least he hadn’t succumbed to the siren lure of hair gel, as his older brother had.

Vittoria made a noise in the back of her throat, her expression nearing outraged. She must think Theo was fucking with you, considering that your demotion and Don Fratelli’s ire were hardly secrets within the Family. “What are you playing at—”

“How’s your visit so far,” you interrupted, sending a bright, inquisitive smile to Sawada. He glanced back to you, the pensive look on his face as he _listened_ to the exchange molding into a polite façade. You didn’t bother looking to Tall and Dark, already knowing his face would be unchanged from his broad smile. And you didn’t _dare_ look at Grumpy.

 “Ah, America is a very…interesting place,” Sawada answered. His tone was mild, pleasant. Careful. “Very cultural.”

You didn’t like that artfully molded smile; it looked ill-fitting and stiff on his face.

“It’s okay,” you said. “You can call it a mess. Most Americans do.”

Now Sawada made a non-committal humming sound, but his smile seemed a touch less plastic. It was something, at least.

Vittoria was still glaring at Theo, and Nico had joined her in the endeavor. Marguerite was finally peaking up from her plate. She bit her lip for a second before following your lead. She pasted on a smile, a bit shier than she probably wanted, and asked with the same polite cheer you had used earlier, “Has everything been to your liking?”

Good girl.

You sent her a tiny, encouraging nod, and her smile widened considerably.

“Everything has been lovely,” Sawada answered. “Thank you again.” His smile tilted into an almost mischievous smirk. “Gokudera was especially pleased by your thoughtfulness with the car.” He nudged Grumpy.

Gokudera grunted and managed to smother a grimace, transforming it into a slightly less disgruntled, slightly more constipated look. “It was very considerate of you,” he said, and while his English was perfect, his tone sounded like he’d rather have his teeth pulled than pay the compliment. “Made it more bearable to deal with the idio—” He jerked slightly liked he’d felt a shock—or a kick under the table—before finishing in a rush, “the idea of being so far from home.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, his face was a portrait of _instant regret._ Sawada looked like he was barely holding back laughter, his serene smile trembling at the corners, and Yamamoto’s grin was positively gleeful.

But Marguerite didn’t seem to notice Grumpy’s pain. She blushed all the way from the tips of her ears down her neck to the collar of her blouse, mumbling some response at her plate that you couldn’t quite catch, and Nico had a bit of trouble biting back a scowl. He shifted closer to her, easing an arm around her shoulders, and you only barely stifled an amused snort.

Vittoria wasn’t so kind. Her smirk was wide and when she caught Nico’s eyes, she waggled her eyebrows at him. His answering flush was spectacular, and he retracted his arm with an embarrassed cough.

Sawada was _definitely_ trying not to laugh.

“I need a smoke,” Gokudera suddenly grunted.

Sawada’s smile didn’t flicker. “I’ll join you,” he said, rising. “Nico? Care to tag along?”

For a split second, Nico looked like he would decline. But then he cleared his throat, nodded, and rose. “Of course, Mr. Sawada.”

The three men strolled to the front door and made themselves comfortable just outside, several paces from the door. It was fairly obvious they were planning to talk business—an Italian Don wanting to speak discreetly with the Fratelli heir apparent? Gokudera’s smoke routine was not exactly subtle. Effective, but not subtle. 

Still, Grumpy lit up with a look that told you he hadn’t been lying—he really wanted that cigarette. It was a little distracting, actually, the way his striking eyes remained heavy-lidded and _satisfied_ throughout that first drag.

You made a point to stop watching.

“If I may ask,” you looked between Theo and Marguerite, glancing at Tall and Dark along the way for the added distraction from the view outside. “ _Why_ did your guest join Vittoria and I?”

Marguerite looked like a child caught in a particularly fantastic fib. “Mr. Sawada said something about…how it would be interesting…to meet you?”

You cocked your head at her, knowing your frown was exceptionally disapproving. “And why would he say that?”

She ducked her head, her hands tangling together as her mouth opened to release a flood of words. “Well, Nico was bragging about how I’d put everything together but—but I _hadn’t_ , not really—not on my own—and so I said I had help and then Mr. Sawada asked and I just sort of blurted it out? That you’d helped me so much?”

You were starting to think that was a trend with Sawada—the inability to deny him if he just asked in the right way. It helped that you knew he could have you murdered with a _look_ , and no one would dare protest.

“And—and then Theo was saying how you’d tutored him and Nico and how much Mr. Fratelli relied on you—”

You raised a hand and she immediately snapped her mouth shut almost mid-word. “Mr. Fratelli does not _rely_ on me,” you said. “And I am hardly in any position for that to be the case.”

Theo scoffed, but he toned down the attitude when you turned a hard gaze on him. He pouted a little. “Well, _I_ think you underestimate yourself,” he said, chin set at a stubborn angle you recognized all too well. “You’re amazing. What about that time you sniffed out the New York group messing with our—”

You kicked him under the table and, ignoring his yelp, sent a mild smile at Yamamoto. His smile didn’t twitch, and the blandly interested look on his face didn’t appear to register any of the conversation. Marguerite just looked curious.

“It is _rude_ ,” Vittoria hissed, “to speak of _Family_ business in front of _guests_.”

Theo huffed and shoved a forkful of meat and lettuce into his mouth. “It’s okay,” Theo’s words were garbled by his full mouth. You sent him another look and he swallowed quickly—almost too quickly, from the sound of his cough directly after. “He doesn’t speak English. Just Italian—and Japanese, apparently.”

You glanced at Tall and Dark. “Oh? And how do you know that?”

Theo shrugged. “Sawada said so.”

“In so many words?”

Theo hesitated, throwing a glance of his own at Yamamoto.

Tall and Dark just kept smiling politely, his expression equal parts uncomprehending and friendly. He _seemed_ to not know what was being said, but he’d also been awfully fast to grab those chairs when Sawada waved off Nico earlier. Maybe some of that was intuition from a long working relationship, but that could only go so far.

“Theo…” You knew you were slipping into Teacher Voice, but you couldn’t always help it around the younger Fratelli.

“Sawada said he was sorry for Yamamoto’s English,” Theo said, looking sheepish. “That we should stick to Italian.”

You pursed your lips, and Tall and Dark quirked his head at his name. “That doesn’t mean anything,” you said. “It’s a non-answer. For all we know, he’s apologizing for Tall-Dark-and-Handsome’s _amazing_ English skills.”

Vittoria smirked, and Marguerite giggled behind her hand, but Theo’s pout was fierce as it was sudden. “He’s not that handsome,” he grumbled.

“He’s pretty handsome,” you answered without missing a beat. Vittoria snorted and then hid behind her glass of soda. “But the _point_ is that Tall and Dark could be a plant to collect intel while his Boss-Man and Grumpy talk business with Nico.”

“What useful intel could he get from us?” Theo groused in what you recognized as a full on sulk, and you wondered at his suddenly sour mood.

“First, you’re the next Fratelli right hand,” you said, and tried not to smile when Theo noticeably perked up. “Second, never underestimate a source, especially when you have the opportunity for free info. Third,” you sent him an impish grin, one you knew Theo wouldn’t be able to resist matching, “secretaries know _everything_.”

“Wait, really?” Marguerite looked a bit too excited by the thought.

You shrugged. “Mostly, yeah.”

Vittoria grinned at Marguerite. “Oh, we’ve got our tricks.” She examined her nails with almost theatrical care before sliding a bit of side-eye your way; you began to regret your cheeky comment. “For example, convincing the payroll department to slow down processing and cause a small riot in HR—just so the shipping crew can get a new coffee-maker.”

You groaned, ignoring Theo’s excited noise. “Not this one again.” You sent her a hard look, but it was useless. She was immune. You settled on a tight smile.  “I thought we weren’t talking about Family matters in front of guests.”

Vittoria just winked at you and flicked her coral-pink nails. “This is bureaucracy, not business, darling.”

“A new coffee maker?” Marguerite interjected, and you decided she was _definitely_ too excited. “Aren’t they…like, twenty bucks?”

“I _hate_ this story,” you said, at the same time that Theo said, “I _love_ this story!”

By the time Nico returned with Sawada and Gokudera, Marguerite and Theo were giggling messes, Vittoria in full storyteller mode, and your face was buried in your hands. Tall and Dark was just smiling, glancing between people as though he had no idea what was going on but was nonetheless enjoying everyone’s happiness.

Sawada’s lips twitched up at the corners, and he said something in Japanese to Yamamoto, who laughed and answered in kind. He had a nice laugh, you’d give him that, all rich and bright and a bit infectious, but you didn’t buy his language-barrier shtick for a goddamned second.

You met Gokudera’s eyes, but Grumpy wore his disgruntled expression like a comfortable old sweater. He slipped into the booth next to Sawada, smelling faintly of cigarette smoke and something sharper, more acidic. And then he promptly ignored everyone but Sawada.

Nico muttered something to Theo, who composed himself enough to say “coffee-maker riot” before he had to stifle more giggles.

You staunchly ignored the look Nico sent you, delicately sipping your water and turning your gaze out the window. You heard Nico sigh before he gracelessly plopped himself into the booth beside Marguerite.

“Did we miss anything?” Sawada asked, the epitome of polite inquiry.

“Just war stories, dear,” Vittoria answered. She paused and sent you an apologetic look, which you waved off. She always got a bit too into the dramatic narrator role, and the comment itself was not enough to be considered indiscreet.

Sawada still raised his brows. “War stories?”

“Bureaucracy,” you answered, falling back on Vittoria’s previous comment. “Hardly exciting, but such is the life of a paper-pusher.”

“I thought I heard something about a riot?” Sawada asked. “That sounds exciting.”

Theo choked on a giggle, and Marguerite hid her smile behind her hand. Nico looked like he couldn’t wait for this lunch to be over. You sympathized deeply.

“It was _not_ a riot,” you said. And now Vittoria was hiding a smile. You bit back a sigh, keeping your face as neutral as possible as you stared down Sawada. “More a…protest.”

For a second, Sawada looked like he was going to push and you _really hoped he wouldn’t_. Between his talent for getting people to answer to him and the cold knowledge that you could absolutely not afford to offend any of these three men—that you may already be neck-deep in trouble just from this conversation—you knew you would be unable to refuse. And you were certainly not up for regaling everyone a second time with one of your more impulsive exploits.

“More…exaggeration?” he said instead.

You flipped his polite façade back at him. “It would seem so.”

Sawada smirked, crooked and amused and surprisingly sultry. You kept your eyes on his, refusing to let them wander even as you felt a flush creeping up your face and wondered what the hell was wrong with your brain today. You had wanted nothing to do with men for months, and that _wasn’t going to change_ just because of some bedroom-eyed strangers, goddamn it.

Theo cleared his throat loudly. “As much as I hate to break this up,” he said, his tone implying he was more than happy to break ‘this’ up. “But I think our lovely ladies are in danger of running late.”

You glanced at your watch. You still had a good ten minutes before you and Vittoria would typically leave, but you plastered on a surprised expression. “Oh, dear,” you said.

It didn’t sound convincing, but it didn’t have to; Vittoria caught on immediately. She gasped and grabbed your arm. “I am so sorry, gentleman!” she said, grabbing her and your purses in a single swoop and standing. “We’ve lost track of the time!”

You accepted your bag when she thrust it at you. “I know it’s terribly rude of us,” you said.

“Not at all, not at all,” Sawada said, waving a hand lazily. He gave you a _knowing_ look, his smile still a touch crooked. You tried not to look at it. “Duty calls?”

You gave him a weak, distracted nod, before turning to your rescuer. “We’ll owe you,” you said to Theo, “for the lunch.” And the escape route, but Theo’s victorious grin told you he understood. He was going to feel terribly clever about this for a few days, you knew.

“I’m afraid I must insist,” Sawada interrupted, standing and taking Vittoria’s hand in one smooth motion. “I did say we would take care of lunch.” He pressed a quick kiss to her knuckles and reached for your hand.

You had already made sure you were just out of reach the second he had hold of Vittoria, but you sent him as dazzling a smile as you could muster. “Again, you’re too generous,” you said. “But we really must be going now.”

“Bye!” Yamamoto called, and you _still didn’t trust that damn grin_.

You nodded at him and then the others. “Goodbye, it was lovely, thank you again!”

You had to grab Vittoria’s hand; she looked a bit shell-shocked from Sawada’s old-world gesture. She smiled and managed a faint “Lovely, thank you,” and all but fled _Aguas Azules_ with you.

It was ten feet out the door that you finally took a deep breath. “I need to trust your feelings more,” you said.

“Yes,” Vittoria said, still sounding a little distracted. “You should.”

There was a pause as you turned the corner toward the office building.

“How’re the feelings now?” you asked.

“Hot,” Vittoria answered. She flushed when you snorted at that, but sent you a devilish grin all the same. “They are a charming bunch, aren’t they?”

You pretended to consider for a moment. “I suppose I can see the appeal.”

Vittoria laughed and smacked your arm. “I know I shouldn’t,” she said, still smirking. “But I really hope we get to see them again.”

You made an undignified squawking noise. You knew she was joking but _still_. “I certainly don’t,” you said. “I’m in enough hot water as it is. And those men,” you jerked your thumb behind you, “are definitely trouble.”

Vittoria sighed and batted her eyelashes at you. “Exactly.”


	4. In which You Need Police for the Police

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos, by the way. You’re all very kind. (◕ ꒳ ◕✿)   
> Also to answer a question about naming the MC: I probably won’t, to be honest. If I did, it’d just be something utterly ridiculous, like Reid R. Snaemm or something equally silly. I’m an old fart from back when “Reader-Inserts” were basically just vague OCs: mostly blank, but still with some level of backstory to help fuel plot and stuff. So, yeah, sorry, but I’m glad you like it otherwise!
> 
>  
> 
> Visitation Arc
> 
> 12 Days Left

 

The rest of the afternoon went by as smoothly as the morning, as though your entire lunch escapade had been some sort of hallucinated fever dream.

You wanted to take it as a good sign, but you couldn’t quite manage it. Between your own embarrassment at the ordeal and the hovering sense of doom that followed you out of the restaurant, you felt like you were heading toward the gallows blindfolded. The axe was going to come down, you just didn’t know where or when.

A little past five that afternoon you bid Vittoria farewell and began the walk home. You mentally went over the contents of your fridge, trying to remember what you had wanted to pick up on your way home that day. Milk, yes, but wasn’t there something else…?

The hair on the back of your neck rose, and you almost stopped walking. Instead, you forced yourself to maintain your brisk pace, not faltering or speeding up and in no way showing that you felt followed.

Axe, meet gravity.

The hot tension stayed at the back of your neck the whole way to the grocery store. You grabbed a half gallon of milk and hesitated, wondering if you should leave immediately or try to wait out your new shadow. You decided to wait, still holding out hope that you would find what you had forgotten if you came across it.

Meanwhile, you sent a brief text to Nico. Just a quick, ‘bad feeling’ heads-up. You didn’t take chances anymore, not after the fight with Dominic. And Nico insisted on always being informed the second you felt something was wrong.

It was in the middle of the household items aisle—you had needed garbage bags, that’s what you’d forgotten, nothing in the fridge at all—that someone bumped their cart against your basket. You almost dropped it but managed to steady your grip, looking up with an apology already on your lips.

Officer Nathaniel Parker smiled smugly at you from in front of his cart.

Your mouth snapped shut with an audible click, feeling the first heady rush of adrenaline hit your system. You swallowed and kept your face one of wide-eyed innocence. “Sorry,” you managed. “Was my basket in the way?”

“No, no” Parker assured, still smiling. “But hey, while I have you here—”

“Unfortunately, I don’t have much time,” you interrupted, your pleasant smile rigid on your lips. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

Parker blinked at you, exaggerating confusion as he said, “But you’ve been wandering the whole store for almost a half hour now. Not much of a _hurry_ , if you ask me.”

You bit back a sarcastic response and reminded yourself to take deep breaths. Deep breaths countered the fight-or-flight response and helped you to _think_ through a situation.  “I’m sorry?”

“Ah, it’s just,” Parker kept smiling like you were old buddies, gesturing lazily as he spoke. “I was hoping you had thought about my offer.”

“I’m afraid my answer hasn’t changed,” you answered, injecting a note of apology and an unhealthy amount of false sweetness into your tone. “I still have no idea what you could mean.”

“Don’t lie,” Parker’s voice was suddenly quieter. You should be used to these sudden dips in his mood, the moments he grew annoyed and dropped the friendly veil; he’d orchestrated enough of these ‘run-ins’ for you to have plenty of first-hand experience with it. But it never failed to chill you.

“You were bleeding on your kitchen floor when I saved you,” he said. “You want to end up like that again?”

“I think that’s a rather inappropriate question,” you said.

Parker frowned, and you could almost hear the gears in his head working as he shifted approaches. “I’m worried about you,” he said. He was lying. “I can help you. But you’ve gotta help me first.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” you said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You think you can call the cops and just walk away?” Parker said. “Call the cops on a Fratelli and get away scot free?”

You kept your face in that blank realm of polite confusion, trying to remember what Yamamoto looked like when he was pretending not to understand you. You knew how thinly you skated with Don Fratelli right now because of that night with Dominic—Parker was right about that. You had lashed out at a member of the Family, no matter if he had struck first; you had injured him and hurt his reputation as a man; you had called the police on him—on a _Fratelli_. Injury and insult and threat to the Family. All in one neat package.

Parker’s smile was tight and grimly satisfied, and you felt exposed under his hard gaze. “Just come talk to me. Not at the station, we’ll find another location. Somewhere safe.”

You swallowed and quirked your brows into a confused frown. “But why would I need to do that?” you asked. “I’m not in any danger, officer.”

“Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart,” he whispered. “And when I find your body in a ditch, I’ll make sure to write it on your fucking tombstone.”

You didn’t respond, holding your basket in a white-knuckled grip you hoped he wouldn’t notice. Because that scenario was a _very real possibility_.

“All right, fine. I don’t need your answer yet anyway,” he said, finally pushing his cart forward. “I’m sure I’ll run into you again. Like the last time. And the time before that.” He sent you that plastic smile again. “I’m always around. And I’ll be there when you’re ready to turn. I just want to help, sweetheart.”

No, he wanted a promotion. You took a measured breath as Parker walked away, waiting a few moments before heading for a self-checkout lane.

The first time Parker had approached you, you barely remembered him as the pushy responding officer from the few nights previous. He had ‘found’ you at the park, where you were waiting for Vittoria for a relaxing girls-day out. Parker had been overly sweet and a bit aggressive, trying to corner you with questions. You had pleaded a headache and faulty memory from the concussion, and it had taken Vittoria nearly causing a scene shortly after arriving for him to back off. 

You had informed Nico immediately of the nosy cop, and the teen had pumped one of the Fratelli moles in the police station the same day. Ambitious to the point of tunnel-vision, the mole had said, with a reputation for not letting things go. Wants to make detective but can’t pass the exam; retakes it regularly anyway. Scrapes by his performance reviews with the minimum required to keep on his beat; but he’s never written up, and any complaints made against him disappear.

It was not reassuring.

Parker had taken to dropping into your life through your day-to-day outings, sometimes leaving you alone for weeks and others creeping up on you almost every day. The song and dance was always the same—what a ‘pleasant surprise,’ had you considered talking to him yet, he was looking out for you, you owed him, he saved you, why were you protecting them, _blah, blah, blah_.

It was harassment, and it left you angry and scared, but Nico couldn’t do much. Parker was clearly not going to be dissuaded, and taking out a cop was always a last-ditch move; it brought too much attention, too much risk to the Family. Besides, Parker may be sleazy, but you weren’t sure you wanted his death on your conscience.

You walked home more quickly than usual, eyeing your surroundings suspiciously until you were inside the apartment building. You paused at your mailbox, sending Nico a text to report your run-in with Officer Stalks-a-Lot.

You checked the box and headed to the elevator, sending Nico a quick ‘thanks’ when he responded to your text almost immediately. You rested your head against the back of the elevator, chiding yourself for not taking the stairs when this ancient contraption was probably no faster. You felt tired and in need of a mental break—maybe some mindless reading? You had some trashy books you’d been meaning to get to; maybe you should break one open tonight.

You saw the graffiti the moment you stepped off the elevator. You felt the familiar drop in the pit of your stomach, closed your eyes, and sighed deeply. You wanted to turn around and leave—stay with Vittoria for the night, sleep in a 24-hour coffeeshop, be _anywhere but here right now_.

You opened your eyes and walked to your door, ignoring the bright red scrawl of paint on the wood. You went inside and put away the milk; you topped off Zeus’s food bowl, giving him some chin-scratches when he rubbed against your leg. You changed into some old jeans and a ratty T-shirt, grabbed sandpaper from your toolbox, filled a bucket with water and soap, and dropped in an old wire brush.  A regular sponge wouldn’t work; you knew from the first time.

And then you stood outside your door and began the process of scrubbing off the _Narc Bitch_ someone had written in big, angled letters. Bits of your door’s blue paint came off with it, and the wire brush left small, splintering grooves in the wood. But the red was coming off, and that was all you cared about right now.

When you finished, there was a broad patch of scratchy, blue-patched wood on your door. You sanded it down as best you could, trying to mind the splinters, but still felt the pricks against your hands before you were done. You were out of paint; you’d need to pick some up from the hardware store this weekend.

You stared at your patchy door, your arms aching from the hard scrubbing. You tidied up your mess in the hall and brought everything inside, cleaning and stowing them back in their places. You had managed to avoid more than a few splinters, and it only took a few minutes with a pair of tweezers before you were done, which you somewhat glumly counted as a lucky break.

You washed your hands, careful the tender places, and poured antiseptic on the small scratches you’d acquired. Your hands felt raw from scrubbing and sanding, and a few flecks of blue refused to come off your skin. You made a mental note to not to get latex-based paint this weekend, and generally tried not to think about how you would be spending your Saturday afternoon repainting your front door for the third time this month.

Feeling drained and depressed, you made yourself some hot cocoa and snuggled into your couch. Zeus jumped up onto the padded window-shelf you’d bought for him last summer, settling himself in to watch his evening show. The tree just below and to the left of the window was always full of birds around dusk, their loud chirping almost obnoxious as they settled in to roost, but it was like primetime television for the cat.

You sat there for a while, legs tucked beside you, sipping hot chocolate and watching Zeus watch the birds, his thick wire-brush of a tail swinging and flicking hypnotically.

Your phone pinged on the coffee table, and as much as you really didn’t want to pick it up at that moment, you knew it might be important. So you picked it up, unlocking it to find a message from Nico. It was only two words, but when you read it you couldn’t help the pitiful noise you made, pulling your knees up so you could tuck your head against them and curl into a ball in the chair.

_“Dad knows.”_

 

 


	5. In which the Unexpected Interrupts the Expected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visitation Arc
> 
> 11 Days Left

 

You appreciated Nico’s warning more than you could say. Even though it left you anxious and fretful, you’d much rather be afraid and _prepared_ than dwell in ignorance and unease.

You had time to mentally brace yourself now. You spent your morning routine carefully constructing emotional barriers, wall after wall of professional façade delicately layered on like foundation and blush. You packed your lunch for the day like a soldier stowing her equipment, and by the time you were ready to leave, you felt a bit more in control of your anxiety.

You gave Zeus his farewell nuzzle, the beast of a cat giving his customary half-purr, half meowl from his stolen spot on your pillow before setting his head back on his paws and snoozing away.

You let yourself stop for coffee on the way to the office, weighing the effects of the extra caffeine against the comfort of something hot and invigorating. The comfort won.

You were a little later than usual when you set your purse down beside your desk. Only a few minutes before the day started, before the countdown began. You focused on breathing, slow and deep.

Booting up your desktop computer, you wondered if Don Fratelli would drop by in the morning before the bulk of his meetings, or in the afternoon after seeing to his guests. You weren’t sure which was preferable, getting it over with and having it follow you all day or having more time to prepare while also dealing with the hovering dread and anticipation.  

You sat down and inhaled, counting to five before easing the air back out and doing it again. No use fussing over it now. Don Fratelli would visit when he felt like it, no sooner and no later.

Vittoria stopped by briefly, her chipper attitude doing little to lift you from your resigned mindset. She asked if you were all right, and you pasted on a smile and said something vague but hopefully reassuring. She wasn’t convinced, but took the hint.

“I’m just down the hall if you need anything,” she said, placing a small emphasis on the ‘anything,’ and let you alone.

It was a half-hour into lunch, and you were still trying to scrounge up some sort of appetite, when Don Fratelli sailed into your office. You spared a thought to be grateful for the timing, at least—almost everyone on this floor was either out or in the breakroom downstairs. But as much as you didn’t want an audience for this dressing-down, you were also terrified of being alone with Don Fratelli.

You stood as soon as you saw him, ducking your head and murmuring an answering ‘good morning.’ Despite every self-preservative instinct you had, you rounded your desk to shake his hand in greeting. It was the respectful thing to do, the _professional_ thing to do. “How are you this morning?” you asked.

He smiled, a cold, distant thing so unlike the warm expression he used to wear, back when you were just a poor college kid tutoring his sons for extra cash. Before he took you in. Before Dominic.

“I’m well,” he answered. “Though, I have heard some troubling news.”

“Oh?” you asked, keeping your tone strictly in the realm of polite curiosity.

Fratelli eyed you like you were a fish at the market—possibly useful, if a bit smelly. “I have friends visiting,” he said, but his look said he knew damn well you already knew that. “They’re enjoying their stay. But then, my friend Sawada mentioned a curious conversation at lunch.”

You kept your face passive and nodded, the picture of a courteous listener.

Fratelli’s eyes grew colder at your lack of reaction. “Care to explain that?”

“I eat lunch there every Wednesday,” you said, feeling sick of the phrase after yesterday. “I’m afraid your guests…insisted on my joining them.” You didn’t mention Vittoria; if Sawada didn’t, you certainly wouldn’t.

“Ah, you see, that’s funny,” Fratelli said, voice low and sharp and not at all amused. “Because I know Nico told you to keep your distance.” He leaned forward a bit, hovering at the edge of your personal space. “And I _know_ I told you to keep your nose out of _my_ _dealings_.”

His dealings—his illegal businesses. The ones he didn’t trust you with anymore.

Fratelli took a step closer, blatantly invading your space now, but you refused to step back. You met his eyes, staying mindful of your hands to keep them from trembling and keep yourself distracted. He smelled of something thick and musky, the kind of old cologne scent that young men didn’t tend to wear anymore but grandfathers and uncles seemed to universally favor.

“Nico swears to me it was an accident,” Fratelli was saying. “A mistake because his little ’Rita didn’t know any better.”

He leaned in closer, you could smell the mint he must have eaten earlier, and it was getting harder not to step back. You felt claustrophobic, your lungs aching to speed up but you shifted your focus to counting breaths again as Fratelli continued. “And Theo says it was _his_ fault.”

He looked angry at that, like the thought of his sons trying to take on blame for you was particularly disturbing. Fratelli was always a little harsher on Theo, and a lot more protective. “Do you know what I think?”

You shook your head, sure he could hear your heart pounding at this close proximity. “No, sir.”

Fratelli’s lips pulled down. “I think you’re meddling,” he said, barely more than a whisper. “I think you’re _stepping out of your_ _place_.”

You slid your gaze just past his right ear, not able to maintain eye contact anymore but refusing to physically back away. You stared at the wall, vaguely noting the photograph Theo gave you years ago was crooked on its hook.

 “The boys, they love you, but they can’t protect you from yourself,” Fratelli went on. “And I don’t care how much they rage and shout—if you step out of yours place again, Nico’s going to have to find a new home for that cat of yours.”

You inhaled a sharp, trembling breath, trying to keep the photo as your center of focus and your face passive. Your hands were shaking, but you were too busy fighting back the cold rush of fear that washed through veins. You took the threat for what it was, and you were terrified.

It was one thing for random Family to scrawl graffiti on your door, leave unsavory notes in your inbox; but a _don’s_ threat was Official. Irrevocable.

Fratelli raised his hand, to do what you weren’t sure, couldn’t _think_ past the suffocating pressure in your lungs, but then the tension in your office was sliced in half when a cheerful voice interrupted with a bright “Hello!”

You jumped, jerking back a step as Fratelli turned, his expression shifting to thunderous at the interruption before his shoulders stiffened for a moment, then his whole body eased into a carefully pleasant façade.

“Aah!” he threw out his hands in welcome as Tall and Dark stood in the doorway, casually leaning against your doorjamb like he owned the building.

How long had he…?

“Yamamoto!” Fratelli approached and began speaking rapidly in Italian, shaking Yamamoto’s hand and kissing his cheeks. You recognized some of the words and phrases, but your brain was too stalled to make much sense of it.

While Yamamoto answered brightly and their conversation continued, you took the time to stare at your wall and scrambled to compose yourself. Deep breaths, count them out, in for five, out for five, keep breathing, _stop shaking_ —

Fratelli called your name and you whipped your eyes back to him, endeavoring to keep your posture and expression as neutral as possible. You didn’t want to show how scared you were, and you took familiar refuge in professionalism.

“Yes, sir?” your voice barely shook, and you gave yourself credit for managing that much at least.

“About our discussion--do you understand?”

You swallowed, knowing the politely blank look on your face was stiff and unnatural, but at least you weren’t cowering. You managed to nod your head.

“Good,” he said, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. As he turned to walk away, he casually said, “Remember, your place.” The light tone didn’t fool you; Don Fratelli was getting in one last blow, to make sure it _stuck_.

He led Yamamoto out, talking expansively in Italian. Tall and Dark just followed, smiling and nodding at the don.

You let yourself lean back against your desk in a half-collapse, no longer striving to keep the tremors out of your hands or breathing. You gasped for a few breaths like you’d been running, and you let your face fall into your hands as you struggled to stuff your fear into a mental box and set it aside for later. You had work to do now. No one else was going to get it done; it was your responsibility.

You took a final deep breath, held it, and eased it out slowly. Your hands were steadier, and you took a moment to go through your task list for the day. Work was always a reliable refuge from emotions, whether in college or your career, and unhealthy or not, you needed whatever advantage you could muster right now.

Just get through the day. That was the key. Get through the day and you could break down in the privacy of your apartment. _Just get through the day_.

“Hello!”

You shrieked, the cry cut off after barely half a second when you slapped your hands over your mouth. You turned wide eyes onto Yamamoto, who looked terribly contrite. His hands were raised palms up, and he was saying “Sorry! Sorry!” in a thick accent.

You took another deep breath, and another, staring at him incredulously before glancing behind him for Fratelli. You didn’t think you could handle another confrontation with the don, not today, not so soon after the last.

“Ah,” he smiled, gesturing behind him when saw your worried looks. “Tsuna.”

You frowned at him for a moment, before you let out a quiet “Oh!” and nodded. Right, Sawada Tsunayoshi. Boss-Man was chatting with Fratelli, likely with Grumpy in tow, and Tall and Dark had wandered back because..?

You tried to smooth away your frown, aiming for that polite blankness even while you counted deep breaths. You didn’t dare try for a smile, knowing it would be shaky and scared and give far too much away. “How can I help you?” you asked.

Yamamoto cocked his head at you, expression curious.

You stubbornly refused to cater to what you were certain was a game, simply cocking your head right back and waiting patiently. You’d been a teacher; you knew how to wait someone out.

Finally, Yamamoto chuckled, grinning widely and glancing around your office. You hated the feeling that you’d just won some sort of game—or passed a test—without knowing.

After another moment, he settled his gaze on you. “Place…?” He asked, his expression was softer than its usual cheer, like he knew it was cruel to ask but he had to anyway.

Your lips thinned, eyes unfocused on him as your fading fear flared into sudden irritation. “A woman’s place is beneath her man,” you muttered, swallowing hard at the suddenly vivid memory of Dominic’s rage, his fist. You rubbed at the small scar on your jaw, caught yourself, and quickly moved to straighten Theo’s picture with more fuss than was strictly necessary.

You’d known Fratelli was nothing if not traditional, but you hadn’t realized just _how traditional_ until your fight with Dominic. You’d hit a double whammy that night, apparently, when you’d lashed back at Dominic’s violence and then called the police on Don Fratelli’s favorite new blood.

Yamamoto looked concerned, almost thoughtful, and you pulled yourself away from dark memories to paste on a bright smile. It didn’t _feel_ shaky, at least. You gestured at the picture you’d tidied. “Theo took it,” you said, deciding to play along with his lost-in-translation game as you mimed snapping a picture with a camera. It was probably stupid to think indulging him would help redirect him, but you were willing to try.

He glanced at the framed photograph, quirking his head at it, before his gaze flicked back to eye your hands curiously. You felt a moment’s confusion before you realized that your miming must be flashing some of the more noticeable scratches on your palms. You resisted the urge to tuck your hands behind you, knowing that would be a dead giveaway. Instead, you let them rest casually at your sides, like you had nothing to hide and there was nothing out of the ordinary, and turned back to the picture.

“He was very proud of himself,” you continued in a rush, trying to distract Yamamoto and maybe lose the last traces of your fear; it didn’t matter anymore if he could understand or not, you just wanted to focus on a good memory, just for a bit. “Gave it to me because he said I inspired him. Sweet kid, huh?”

You could almost hear Theo laughing, twelve years old and fascinated by Jacob’s camera; he’d been overjoyed when the chauffer had let him borrow it that day on the pier, with a storm rolling in and the sun splashing through the dark clouds to shine patches on the water. It was a beautiful photo, and Theo had surprised you with a blown-up version of it in a pretty frame, blushing and telling you that it reminded him of you and he wanted you to have it.

Nico had thought it hilarious when you accepted with a kiss to Theo’s forehead, the younger boy going red and yelling at his older brother in Italian. You still weren’t completely sure what that was about—Nico’s teasing, you assumed.

You jumped again when Yamamoto laid a gentle hand on your shoulder, so light as to almost not be there at all. His touch felt almost cool through your shirt. “Okay?” His voice was still quiet, still concerned.

You glanced to the photo and back again, feeling a smile you hadn’t noticed slip from your face. You hoisted it back on and gave Yamamoto a small nod. “Okay.”

It was a lie, as far as it went, but you felt better at least. The fear felt more distant, like it had happened to someone else, and you felt like you could finish the day without breaking.

You nodded again, smiling more genuinely at Yamamoto and repeating the word with a little more conviction. “Okay.”

He grinned, looking for all the world like he understood everything you were feeling at that moment and was happy he had helped. He was a very calming presence, you realized. A bit unexpected, considering his profession, but right now you appreciated it.

“Thank you,” you murmured. Even if the language-barrier ploy weren’t fake, you felt it was a common enough phrase that he’d understand. He knew greetings and apologies for certain, so gratitude was likely on his short list of usable vocabulary.

Yamamoto nodded, saying something in Japanese—something rhythmic and automatic, like a phrase he’d memorized—before he sent you a truly dazzling smile and walked away, completely silent in his movements.

 You felt…buoyed by the encounter. And the rest of your day you felt far above your fear, your dread. It wouldn’t last, you knew, but you just needed it for now.

Get through the day, you reminded yourself. Get through the day and deal with the aftermath when it comes.


	6. In which You Need an Escape from your Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visitation Arc 
> 
>  
> 
> 10, 9 Days Left

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kind reviews, by the way. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ Ya'll are the best.

 

 

You called in sick Friday, escaping a worried interrogation from Vittoria with the promise of lunch Saturday—somewhere outside of the Fratelli’s stomping grounds, please and thank you. You weren’t keen on risking another encounter.

You then spent the morning fetching the correct shade of blue paint from the hardware store, and on your way back you fielded several texts from Theo, a steady progression of ‘r u rly sick?’ to ‘do u want me 2 brng u soup??’.

“ _No, thank you. Just need some rest._ ”

“ _is it bcaus of lunch wed? im rly srry if it is!!!_ ”

“ _It’s okay, I’m just tired. But thank you, you’re very sweet_.”

He sent back a flurry of emojis, not all of them compatible with your phone’s software, but you sent him back a simple heart and left it at that.

When you got home, you pulled on the old, worn clothes from Wednesday evening and set about priming, painting, and sealing your front door, knowing perfectly well that you’d likely have to do it all over again before the end of the month.

But that was no reason not to do the job properly. It had almost become your method of defiance—they could graffiti your door all they wanted. You would still fix it every time, and you would fix it _well_.

You spent the rest of the afternoon reading trashy novels, Zeus a warm, heavy weight nestled next to you on your chair. It was a nice distraction, though the caramel-eyed male lead of one of the Victorian romances had your mind periodically conjuring a different face for him. You didn’t bother to finish that one, replacing it on your bookshelf for another day and grabbing a torrid, fantasy-based love story instead.

When Saturday morning came, you took your time getting up and ready for lunch with Vittoria. A bit of fruit and toast for a late breakfast, nothing to offset your appetite for later, and you spent the rest of your morning teasing Zeus with a laser pointer. He “caught” the dot and you cheered quietly as he cautiously checked under a paw for his victim. There was a knock on the door, and you tossed the cat a mouse toy so he could feel properly victorious.

“Behave yourself,” you told him as you grabbed your purse, “No raves, no drugs, and _absolutely no_ _chewing electrical cords_.” Zeus ignored you, too busy stalking the stuffed mouse.

After a quick peek through the peephole confirmed Vittoria was waiting, you slipped out the door and locked up behind you.

“Why does it smell like paint?”

You were very grateful that you were still facing the lock and Vittoria couldn’t see your wince.  “I think someone was repainting their door?” you said, injecting what you hoped was the proper amount of confusion into your tone.

“Why?” Vittoria’s nose was wrinkled, and she was eyeing your neighbor’s doors suspiciously.

You aimed for a careless shrug. “Dunno,” you said. “Not my business.”

Vittoria gave you side-eye as you walked to the elevator, and you tried not to betray anything, face bland and uninterested.

“Speaking of business,” she said when you were inside the elevator.

“Mhmm?”

“You gonna tell me why you weren’t at work yesterday? Or why you were in a funk all of Thursday?”

You grimaced. You were grateful to not be talking about the door again, but you had also hoped to put off this discussion for later. Or never, if you could manage it.

“Tired,” you said. She snorted and crossed her arms, and you watched the light above the elevator doors tick slowly down to the star symbol for the lobby, gathering your words carefully. “The guests told Mr. Fratelli about our lunch date,” you said quietly. “And he had a _talk_ with me about it.”

Vittoria stiffened next to you. After a pause, she cursed.

“Yeah,” you said. “Fuck.”

The elevator was silent the rest of the long way down, and when it dinged weakly, you stepped out without a word.

Vittoria knew damn well what must have happened, and she knew better than to ask or try to talk about it. She knew what kind of ‘talk’ with a man like Don Fratelli constituted, what that kind of message from the Family entailed. And that was something everyone knew better than to discuss publically.

And so, you both walked down the street without a word, Vittoria pensive in her worry. She glanced at you occasionally, as though you might disappear if she looked away too long. She wasn’t too wrong, you supposed.

It was three blocks before you broke down and asked, “So, did I miss anything yesterday?”

“Not much,” Vittoria answered, and you were glad that she was at least pretending that nothing was wrong. Pretending that you weren’t officially put on the Family’s on-notice board.

“Oh!” She gave you a nervous glance, and you mentally braced yourself accordingly. “Jacob called for you—”

You shook your head, raising a hand in a stop-motion before she could finish. “Nope,” you said. “He called for _Marguerite_.”

Vittoria bit her lip. “He said the guests wanted to talk to _you_.”

You stumbled—truly, actually stumbled over your own feet for a second. “What? _Why?_ ” Were they _trying_ to get you killed? You took a deep breath, striving not to think about what Fratelli would do if he heard _this_ bit of news. You were going to have grey hairs within the year, if they let you live that long.

Vittoria shrugged. “I don’t know.” She looked a bit upset herself. “Jacob just said they were asking about you, that Mr….” Vittoria hesitated. She didn’t want to say his name aloud, not out on the street.

“Boss-Man?” you supplied.

“Boss-Man,” she smiled despite herself, “wanted to chat with you and Nico again.”

You groaned, slapping your hand against your forehead. “It’s like they’re little chaos demons,” you grumbled. “Just causing trouble _everywhere_.”

There was a moment of quiet, and then Vittoria stopped chewing her lip and offered, “But they are _yummy_ trouble, aren’t they?”

You grimaced. “Not _this_ again.”

“Yes, _this again_ ,” Vittoria said, perhaps a bit overly bright as she latched onto the change of subject.

You appreciated her attempt at levity, but you were _not interested in men right now_. Or at all. Ever. You’d had your fill, thank you, moving right along now.

“Tall and Dark is pretty dreamy,” she continued. “All broad shoulders and lean muscle.” She sighed dramatically. “But I think…Grumpy, you called him?” She grinned at your resigned nod. “Grumpy has a _sweet ass_.”

You looked heavenward and just gave in. “Really? His ass? The man has eyes greener than a Jolly Rancher and you’re focused on his nice ass?”

“So you agree it’s nice?”

“Yes,” you conceded with mock-primness. “But I object to your priorities.”

“You’re right,” she said. “First priority should be that attitude. So… _bad boy_.”

You snorted and shot her a sardonic look. The man was a Mafioso, for crying out loud.

“You know what I mean,” she said. “I bet he used to wear a lot of leather. And black. Oooh, can you imagine him in one of those spiky collars?” Vittoria fanned herself. “Hello, _nurse_.”

You were grinning now, unable to resist Vittoria’s incorrigible thirst. “I dunno, Boss-Man is something of a cool glass of water.”

Vittoria made a purring sound and you laughed. “I’d like to boss _him_ around. Mmm, but he walks like he’s got the power of the whole world on him.” She flashed you a pout. “I can’t decide what I want! Tie him up, or have him tie me up?”

“Both?” you asked cheekily.

She nodded her head. “Both.”

There was a pause as you walked along, both in better spirits, and for a moment you thought she was done. Then, “Which do you think would like being called ‘Daddy’?”

You choked on air, and Vittoria laughed. She had said that _loudly_ , and there were people sending you bewildered stares as you passed them on the sidewalk.

“Your face!” she said when she managed a lungful of air. “Sorry, but _your face_ —”

“No, you’re not,” you grumbled. Just as she was about to agree that no, she was not sorry at all, you answered, “Tall and Dark.”

She sputtered, shooting you a surprised look, and began laughing all over again. It took almost half a block for her giggles to subside. Another half-block, and Vittoria had sobered considerably.

“If they ask for you again,” she said. “I’ll stonewall them as much as I can. Tell them you’re…on vacation or something.”

You smiled at her. “Thanks, but it’s probably better if you don’t lie to men like _them_. ’Sides, you’re a terrible liar.”

“I am _not_.” She sniffed indignantly. “I string a yarn like a pro.”

Your banter lightened up considerably from there, arguing the finer points of putting a storm in a teacup for narrative effect and then moving on to her newest nephew Alex—the most adorable infant this side of the Atlantic, apparently. Her brother Loreto was trying to lure her to visit them, to give him and Simon a breather and give her “practice”—and Vittoria actually stopped walking, forcing you to stand with her and watch as she regaled you with her top ten reasons for never reproducing. The new fathers’ perpetual exhaustion was mentioned at least twice. You pointed that out, but Vittoria just produced another ten reasons to compensate, and you conceded the familiar arguments for the sake of not standing in the middle of the damn sidewalk.

When you reached your destination—the city center’s massive park and your favored off-day meeting place—your debate shifted to what food truck to visit. Vittoria decided on _Tongue Thai’d_ while you went more for _Currying Favor_. Agreeing to meet back at your usual bench by the artificial pond, you separated. It wasn’t until you were waiting for your Naan-ya-Business (who _named_ these things?) that you felt the all-too familiar prickle on the back of your neck.

And just like that, your appetite fled and you felt a little ill. You continued to fiddle with your phone, shooting a heads-up text to both Nico and Vittoria. You had used it so much that your phone suggested most of the phrasing without much prompting. After a moment’s consideration, you sent another quick message, opened your call log, and then made a bit of a show of getting distracted by some of the scavenging birds in the food courtyard, phone tucked against your chest.

As soon as you felt someone at your shoulder, you hovered your finger over the ‘call’ button and let your hand fall to your side, turning to meet Parker’s plastic grin.

“In the mood for Indian too, I see!”

You forced on a bland smile, but it felt more like a small grimace. You pushed through anyway. “Can I help you, sir?”

“You know how you can help me,” Parker said, giving you a cold glance before he perused the menu chalked on the side of the truck. “I’d hurry up if I was you, though. Running out of time.”

You blinked, heart pounding, and forced in a deep breath to counter the panic that those words wrought. Did he know about Don Fratelli’s threat? _How?_ “Excuse me?”

He grinned at you, a bit of the plastic smile fading off into a cruel edge. “You heard me.” Parker sighed happily, eyes back on the menu.

Your thumb hit the ‘call’ button.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” you said, and your voice sounded hollow even to yourself. “I told you before, I’m not in any danger.”

Parker huffed out a laugh, humorless and with a sharpness to it. “You love that lie, don’t you, sweetheart?” He smiled at you, all bared teeth. “But don’t you worry, I’m one of the _good_ guys. And ’cause I’m a good guy, I’m going to fix your problem soon.”

It took a second to remember how to breathe. You avoided his gaze and struggled with the implications of what Parker said. As much as you wanted away from this man as soon as possible, you couldn’t keep being evasive with him, not now. No, _now_ you needed to get him to slip on _what the hell he was talking about_. Because that sounded very much like a threat to the Fratelli, and you couldn’t pass on the chance to get more information, not with those stakes.

You didn’t have to pretend to look worried, and your silent conflict seemed to embolden Parker anyway. When you shot him a nervous glance, no longer hiding behind your polite mask, a bit more of the plastic fell away from his smile. As much as you hated that smile, though, you preferred it to the smug, unpleasant twist on his lips now.

“Fix?” you asked, your voice a touch weak. You hated letting him see the fear, but if he was planning to move against the Family, you would damn well swallow your pride. You couldn’t let him hurt the boys.

“Yup,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “Like a pack of rabid dogs.” He held a finger to his head and mouthed ‘pow’ at you, and the almost playful laugh he gave made you feel lightheaded and nauseated. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he said, and his satisfied smile said that he knew he was upsetting you, that he was finally getting the reactions he’d been aiming for since he started this harassment. It reminded you of Dominic and suddenly you wanted to punch him. Preferably in the throat.

 “Tell you what,” he said, stepping closer to you. You immediately stepped back. He grinned. “You talk to me, and I’ll talk to you. Fair trade, eh?”

“No, I don’t believe it is,” you said.

“I’m trying to make the world a better place,” he said. “Free of criminals like them. You can help me.”

Your knee-jerk reaction was to deflect, to lie and feign ignorance about your employer. But he was _planning_ something, dammit. “H-help you? With what?”

Parker’s expression turned eager, and he crowded closer to you despite your effort to keep space between you. “I’ve got a plan,” he said. “The board is set, sweetheart, and I want you with me when I take out the king.” He made a little motion, like he was flicking away a fly. “Check-mate.”

“King?” Did he mean Don Fratelli, or, you swallowed thickly, did he mean _Sawada_? Because the Italian don was on a level far and above that of the Fratelli. Your mind raced. If Sawada were threatened or wounded while in Fratelli care, it would be _very fucking bad_. You found yourself wondering yet again _how much did Parker know?_

“His royal highness himself.” Parker’s smile was almost manic now. “He’s got his bishops and his knights, but they can’t protect him.”

“What do you mean?” You mentally cursed at Parker for his vagueness. You needed something _specific_ ; you couldn’t do anything with his waxing poetic with a goddamn chess analogy. It almost didn’t matter if he meant ‘King’ of the Fratelli or ‘King’ of the Underworld itself—not if you couldn’t figure out what he was planning in the first place.

Your name was called at the pick-up window, and though you weren’t hungry anymore you needed the moment to gather your wits. You needed him to talk—actually _talk_ , something more than ‘King’ and ‘soon’—and you weren’t sure how to make him do that. But as soon as you had stepped away from the truck again, Parker was right back in your space.

“You _know_ what I mean,” he said, practically in your ear. You tried to back up but he followed you. “You know what they are and you’re _helping them_.”

“Please step away from me—”

“You _know_ what they are,” Parker said, keeping his voice low. “You _know_ they will kill you and you’re _still_ helping them!’

“Officer, I assure you—”

“They will _kill you_ ,” he plowed right over your words. “And I will _save you_.”

And just like that, Parker stepped back, an eager, almost expectant grin on his face. “When the masque is at its peak,” he said, raising his arms in a mock-shrug, “No one can tell the king from the killer.”

He was insane. You stared at him, a new level of dread rising. He was insane, and he was gunning for the Family.  

“Please leave me alone, officer,” you said, retreating into polite distance. It was a mistake to provoke him, to encourage him. You had gotten no new information, nothing to help the Fratelli. You were terrified and _he was insane_.

“I believe you’re a good person,” Parker said, completely ignoring your request. “I’m trying to help you.”

“You call this help?” You abandoned any claim to a polite façade, your instincts screaming at you to _get away from him_. “This is harassment.”

“No, it’s obstruction of justice.” Parker’s voice had gone icy again, cold and sharp. “Either you help me, or I _will_ put you down with the rest of those dogs, and don’t you doubt it.”

“Never come near me,” you said, already inching backwards. “And _never speak to me again_.” You turned to walk away, but Parker grabbed your wrist in a too-hard grasp. You knew from experience that that kind of grip would bruise. The urge to punch Parker in the throat was back again.

“Do _not_ touch me,” you hissed, fist already clenching.

“There you are!”

Vittoria’s arm dropped onto your shoulders, her loud greeting drawing eyes from nearby patrons. Parker dropped your wrist like it burned him.

“Let’s go,” Vittoria said, sending an acidic glare Parker’s way. “It kinda stinks here.”

You followed her, ignoring Parker’s furious gaze as you walked away. But Vittoria took you passed your bench by the pond and further down the path to the park restrooms, locking the door and checking the stalls before turning and enveloping you in a hug.

“ _Fuck_ ,” you shuddered.

Vittoria made a soothing noise, petting your hair and rocking gently. After your trembling eased, you stepped back and sent her a grateful smile. She returned it wanly.

“Tell me you caught some of that?” you said.

“More than I wanted,” Vittoria said.

“Recorded?”

Vittoria winced and shook her head.  “Couldn’t get the app going before you called, and I didn’t want to leave you hanging. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you said. You took a deep breath, counting the seconds of each inhale until the trembling was gone entirely. “Okay.”

You pulled out your phone and started to text Nico, thought better of it, and called instead.

He picked up after the third ring. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“Yes,” you said. “But it was too much to type and I’m pretty much scared shitless.”

Vittoria paced while you gave Nico a quick report, occasionally interjecting her own opinion on the encounter or Parker himself.

There was a short pause after you finished.

“Does he know about our…guests?” Nico asked.

“I don’t know,” you said. “I tried to get information, but he’s fucking crazy.”

Nico cursed, muttering in Italian—something about timing and pressure and…a favor? You wished your Italian were better, because you couldn’t help but feel this was important—before he switched back to English. “Never do that again, by the way,” Nico said. “He could have hurt you.”

“Never pass on the chance for intel,” you said automatically, “especially when it concerns a threat—and he _is_ a threat, Nico. He’s planning something.”

“It can’t be for Sawada,” Nico said quietly. “He wouldn’t _dare_. Not against the fucking _Vongola_.”

“He may not know who they are,” you said. “We can’t be sure he even knows they’re here. Also, in case you missed it earlier, _he’s fucking crazy_.”

Nico sighed, and you could picture him running a hand over his meticulously-coiffed hair and then fiddling carefully to remedy any damage to his ’do. Normally, the image would have left you smiling. Right now, you just felt sick with worry.

Parker couldn’t go after the boys. They weren’t his ‘king’; he _wouldn’t go after them_.

Your own words echoed back to you— _crazy_. You couldn’t say for sure what he would or wouldn’t do at this point. You could only rely on his previous patterns, which so far had consisted of his stalking you and not any sort of direct attack on the Fratelli heirs. Keywords: _so far_.

“I’ll talk to Dad, okay?” Nico said. “And I’ll pump our contacts at the station, see if our officer has been running his mouth at work. But it’s…”

“Not much to go on, I know.” You resisted the thought that you could have tried harder, could have lured more information out of Parker if you hadn’t panicked. There was no point to it, and it would just waste effort you needed elsewhere.

Like calling Jacob to tell him to tighten security around the boys, just in case. In case of what, you didn’t know, but Jacob had been driving the Fratelli boys since they were in diapers, and you knew you could trust him to keep an extra eye peeled, with or without the Vongola taking up his time.

“But I think you’re right, for what it’s worth,” Nico said, drawing you from your plans. “He’s got something up his sleeve. We just gotta find out what it is before he drops it on our damn heads.”

“You’ll be careful in the meantime?” you asked, mind full of kings and heirs and killers. What was it Parker had said? Check-mate? That meant trapping the king, leaving no available moves on the board. No way to avoid the final blow, no way to retreat. Trapping a Don was almost impossible. But Fratelli was more than a Don, wasn’t he?

You tried not to think about it, but your brain shoved a memory in your face anyway. Fratelli had been so damn happy when Nico got into college. That joy had been almost heartbreaking to see, and as much as your relationship was already strained by that point, Fratelli had still made a point to include you in the celebrations because Nico wanted you there, because you had guided the teen through his applications and read over his essays and advised him about interviews and campus visits and now Fratelli’s son was going to college and the Don was almost beside himself with pride.

Fratelli was practical and cold and cutthroat with his Family, but everyone knew he loved his _family._ And you couldn’t think of any way to pin down that ‘King’ that didn’t involve his sons, his boys, his _heirs_. You hoped you were overthinking it. _Please be overthinking it._

The lack of response on the phone was making you nervous. “Nico?”

“I’m more worried about you,” he admitted. “You’re the one he’s been targeting. Just… Can I _please_ post a guard on you?”

“Your father would never approve that,” you said. It was a familiar discussion by this point. “I’ll keep checking in, okay? I promise.”

Nico grumbled something in Italian again—you recognized a few choice swears—and acquiesced with the drawn-out sigh and “fine” that every teenager seemed to master. “But I want you to text me every day—and when you leave and arrive somewhere, okay? That includes when you get home today.”

You bit back a sarcastic response at his (not yet impressive) Boss Voice. He was worried, and honestly so were you. “Okay,” you said. “I can do that.”

“I’d tell you to keep your head down,” Nico groused. “But we know how well _that_ worked.”

You started to protest—that had _not_ been your fault!—but Nico was already hanging up. Cheeky bugger. You put your phone away and met Vittoria’s stern expression.

“Do you want to stay at my place tonight?” she asked.

“Nope.” You were not dragging her into this any more than she already was.

“Please?” she said. “I’m worried.”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” you said. “But you hate cats, and I’m not leaving Zeus behind.”

“You…can bring him….” Vittoria looked a little horrified even as she offered, like she were already imagining the cat hair _everywhere_.

You couldn’t help a small laugh. “My building has a doorman—a Family man,” you said, emphasizing the word just enough to get your point across. “And I refuse to be driven from my own damn home.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Vittoria said, resigned and fretful.

You sighed, placing a comforting hand on her arm. “You and me both.”

 

 


	7. In which Mafiosi are Incorrigible Meddlers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visitation Arc 
> 
> 6 Days Left

 

 

Sunday you didn’t bother to leave your apartment and Monday was quiet—almost too quiet, like an ominous calm. So when Tuesday dawned, it was with the sharp tang of anticipation on top of your almost perpetual dread.

You texted Nico when you got to the office. If he’d spoken to Fratelli about Parker’s threat, he didn’t give any sign. His texts had often been short and to the point, but now they were practically monosyllabic, and you were getting worried. Theo had been quiet, too, but more telling was the fact that his few texts were grammatically perfect. The youngest Fratelli was feeling _guilty_ , and you couldn’t figure out _why_.

At least Vittoria’s typical morning cheer was as irrepressible as ever, and you were grateful for the distraction. You chatted happily about Zeus and baby Alex before it was time to get to work. Nonetheless, you went about your day with a deep-seated suspicion.

It was half-hour to lunch, you were knee-deep in a progress report on one of the Fratelli’s Gulf-based shipping firms, when the storm finally broke out with a hard drizzle.

You sensed more than heard someone at your door, and you called a distracted, “just a moment, please,” only half-hearing the visitor’s “no rush” while you flagged an odd deduction in the company’s profit calculations. You left yourself a comment (“This had better not be another goddamn New York all over again or I will use your finger-bones as a wind-chime for my kitchen window”), both to mark where you left off and to remind you to pursue the discrepancy later.

Saving and closing the files, you quickly rubbed your eyes—squinting at the computer screen all morning was hell—and stood up to greet your visitor. Your polite smile fell a notch when you saw the back of Sawada’s head. He was examining Theo’s picture where it hung on the wall, moving as silently as Yamamoto had last week. “Um…”

Sawada’s smile was bright as a lighthouse when he turned around, friendly and welcoming. “Hello!” he said, and you had the distinct impression he was purposefully mimicking his companion. “I was free this afternoon and thought I’d stop by.”

It took you a few seconds to push past the first rush of disbelief and the second surge of anxiety. Taking a deep breath, you glanced at your door, where Grumpy—Gokudera, you corrected yourself—was discreetly hovering. Yamamoto seemed absent, but that didn’t mean anything.

You switched your gaze over from the biting green eyes at your door to the warm brown ones in front of you. “How can I help you, sir?”

“I was hoping we could have lunch,” Sawada said. “Am I too early?”

A man like Sawada could never be too early or late. People set their clocks by him and were thankful, and he damn well knew it.

You pulled your waning smile a bit higher. “I’m afraid I can’t do that today,” you answered. “I’m very sorry.” You were 100% not sorry.

Sawada hummed, watching you like you were some fascinating puzzle. You weren’t, you _really weren’t_ , but you couldn’t just say that to him and hope he’d go away. Because he wouldn’t. Chaos demons, you remembered saying.

 “Theo was telling me about New York,” Sawada said, changing gears so quickly that you had to take a moment to reorient yourself.

You blinked at him, wondering for a moment if he had read your mind earlier before dismissing the absurd thought, and scrambled to decide what was safe and what was indiscreet to mention. You settled on ignorance. “New York…?”

“Yes,” Sawada looked vaguely amused, and you didn’t want to admit that it was a good look on him. “Something about upstarts trying to extort the Long Island front?”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” you said. Theo was a loose-tongued little shit and he had every reason to feel guilty.

“No?” Sawada was definitely amused, and it was _pissing you off_. “But he was telling us all about it last weekend. It was like hearing about a comic book hero.” Sawada wandered closer to your desk, body language oozing indifference despite the smirk on his face. “He said you saved the Fratelli a lot of money—and their reputation in the region.”

Wait, comic books? That was not a reference you expected from a hardened don. Likely intended to distract you or keep you flustered and confused—easy prey. “Theo seems to tell you a lot of things,” you said, smile stiff.

“I think we bonded, yes,” Sawada said, not even trying to hide the mischievous edge to his smile. “Theo and Nico are both bright boys. So much promise in them.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that other than to agree that yes, they were darlings when they weren’t _blabbing their goddamn mouths_ , so you nodded and said, “They are, very much so.”

Sawada kept watching you, like he was waiting for the second part of that statement, but you kept your smile pleasant and firm. After a short silence, you were done waiting for him to redirect you and decided it was your turn. “I hear you were asking for me the other day?”

He had the good grace to look sheepish at that. “Ah, yes,” he said. “I wanted to apologize for last week. Theo was…upset that I’d mentioned our lunch to Fratelli.”

You didn’t say anything. There was nothing _to_ say that wouldn’t reveal something you didn’t want exposed. Even if you lied, he’d see right through it and that would tell him plenty on its own. And you were more than certain Yamamoto had ratted you out about Thursday, like the dirty eavesdropper he was. The comforting, oddly sweet, dirty eavesdropper, but nonetheless.

“He’s worried about you.” Sawada’s tone was thoughtful. For a moment, you thought he meant Yamamoto, but then your brain kicked you and you remembered you were talking about Theo.

Then that quirk of mischief tilted Sawada’s lips again. “He’s very… _fond_ of you.”

“I’m very fond of him as well,” you answered, a little confused. “And Nico, too. I’ve known them for years. Theo told you I tutored them?”

That amused look was back Sawada’s face. It was _irritating_. “Yes,” he said slowly. “But Theo is…much like myself at his age, actually.” Sawada’s laugh was a small, self-deprecating sound. He said something over his shoulder in Japanese, and Gokudera snorted and responded in kind. Sawada chuckled, turned back to you, and continued. “I like him and Nico very much.”

“I’m glad,” you said, very confused and feeling the honest sentiment was safe enough. Now you were positive he was doing this on purpose, trying to keep you unbalanced in the conversation. He was succeeding, too, which annoyed you. What did he want? “They’re an easy pair to like.”

Sawada hummed in agreement, watching you with rich brown eyes that looked almost amber in the light from the window.

He was about to change the subject again. The thought struck you almost as soon as he opened his mouth and said, “Remind me what you do for Fratelli?”

“You know what I do for Mr. Fratelli,” you said.

“I’d like to know more about you,” Sawada’s smile was almost blinding, and you had no doubt that he was intentionally turning on the charm. The man had a killer smile when he wanted and he knew how to use it to his advantage.

“No, you want to know more about what Mr. Fratelli.” The words were out of your mouth before you could stop them, and damn it but you knew what he was doing and _still_ couldn’t stop yourself.

Sawada’s eyes had sharpened, that amber glint almost hypnotizing. “Why would I want that?”

You stubbornly maintained eye contact, refusing to be cowed by his gaze. You considered reverting to default—polite ignorance—but Sawada seemed to just find that amusing and entirely unconvincing. You frowned, considering what you _could_ say against what you refused to reveal.

“Perhaps,” you said, “you want to ensure he’s worth your…investment.”

Sawada raised his eyebrows a jot at your phrasing, head cocking to the side and smile widening. The edge in his gaze took a on a curious light, and he looked like an inquisitive puppy. It was a jarring contrast of adorable innocence and lurking danger.

“I could just ask him,” he finally said. “Or Nico, or Theo.”

The boys were talkative around Sawada, weren’t they? But that was a reminder you would have to give _them_ , not Sawada. You refused to criticize the heirs in front of this man. Not now. Not when it felt like an interrogation.

And what if Sawada decided Fratelli _wasn’t_ worth it? Where did that leave the brothers?

“Maybe you want a …different perspective?” you mused aloud, eyes narrowing on him. You had tutored the boys for years before you were brought into the Family, and then you were a secretary for the don himself. Those were specific positions with certain…personal insights. And secretaries, you remembered your joke with an internal curse, knew everything.

You pursed your lips. “But I’m afraid I can’t help you there,” you said. “I just manage a few shipping details. Nothing more.”

“You do now,” Sawada said. “But you didn’t always. Nico mentioned a dispute?”

You tried to shove down the immediate tangle of emotions—fear, embarrassment, fury—and said through gritted teeth. “All due respect, _sir_ ,” your tone implied no respect at all, and a part of you was screaming to _be polite, don’t offend them, they can kill you_ , but the rest of you was tired of being toyed with. Sawada, Fratelli, Parker, Dominic—you were _done_. “I do not trust you farther than I can _throw_ you. You are not Family, and I will not discuss Family business with you. Or—” you added with a pointed glance at Grumpy in place of the still absent Yamamoto—“with your men, no matter how ignorant they pretend to be.”

There was silence for a heartbeat, then two. Plenty long enough to reconsider and regret your life choices.

Then Sawada shrugged and said, “Fair enough.” The glittery edge left his gaze and he smiled pleasantly. “Want to get lunch anyway?”

You gaped at him, having fully expected him to be angry, vengeful, anything but so cavalier. It was like he’d asked for chocolate ice cream at a shop only to find they were out, and _not at all_ like you had just defied him—rather insolently, too.

“N- _no_ ,” you managed past your shock.

Sawada just shrugged again, entirely unconcerned with your rejections. “Also fair,” he said.

You took a calming breath. “If Theo told you about last week,” you said, striving for an even tone, “then you know why lunch is a bad idea.”

“Oh, that?” Sawada grimaced, then waved you off. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve spoken to Fratelli, the misunderstanding is cleared.”

“Wha…?” You just stared him. “Don’t _worry_ about it? What do you—what _misunderstanding_?”

Sawada flashed you that dazzling grin. “We can discuss it over lunch?”

You sent him a quelling glare, feeling out of sorts and disoriented by the bizarre conversation. But Sawada was entirely unaffected by the Teacher Look. Damn.

“Well, I suppose I can eat here,” he said, moving to take a seat in the chair across from your desk. He let himself fall onto the seat and leaned back, all but _lounging_ in it and looking for all the world like a lazy feline in his own domain. “What are you having?”

You took a deep breath. “Fine,” you said, rubbing the bridge of your nose. “ _Fine_ , but I swear to God if I die because of this _I will haunt you forever_.”

“Lovely!” With that, Sawada all but bounced from his chair, coming around your desk to lightly place a hand at your elbow and rather gently guide you out of your office.

Gokudera moved aside and then took up position walking behind and to the right of Sawada, barely acknowledging your presence outside of a tolerant glare. You sent it right back at him, tempted to stick your tongue out, too, but Grumpy seemed the type to just cut it off. Sawada might be strangely forgiving and easy-going, but his right hand was downright _scary_.

As you passed Vittoria’s office, you tried to catch her eye, for what you weren’t sure—rescue? Warning?—but she was engrossed in a phone call, glaring at her computer monitor and angrily tapping keys. And then you were in the vaulted, two-story lobby, heading downstairs to the main floor. You barely had time to say goodbye to Bruce, the front guard, before you were being swept into the backseat of a sleek, black car you recognized from Fratelli’s private fleet. The back was spacious, two rows of seats facing each other; perfect for discussing business on the move.

It couldn’t have taken more than a minute, and the efficiency of their removing you from your office—from a Family building—was alarming. It occurred to you—rather _late_ , to your chagrin—that they could be getting rid of you for Fratelli. That… _favor_ of Nico’s, perhaps? But no, that didn’t make sense. Nico would never hurt you, and Fratelli would never reveal a weak link to an outsider.

“Have an accident?” Grumpy asked.

You jumped, glancing quickly to Gokudera, who was looking down at your wrist. The one with the handprint pressed into it; the purple had started fading into brown, but the finger marks were still recognizable. You looked down to where your hand was resting on the seat next to you, your long sleeve—murder in the July heat, but a necessary evil—having slid up just enough to show part of the lingering mark.

You calmly tucked your hands into your lap, pasting on a bland smile, and said nothing.

Gokudera narrowed his eyes, but after a moment, he just grunted and let it drop. He met Sawada’s eyes where the don sat across from him, and it occurred to you that both men looked distinctly _displeased_. And while that seemed par for the course with Gokudera, you weren’t as familiar with it on Sawada. But the expression didn’t last long, Sawada’s face slipping into a polite arrangement as he sent you a small smile.

They took you to a nice restaurant, one for which your office clothes, while professional and respectable, left you feeling underdressed. Sawada insisted that you order whatever you wanted, and, when you were given the exclusively Italian menu, he made a point to muse over the options in English.

Gokudera played along obediently, doling out only a few compliments, which you took to be pretty high praise in itself. Between the two of them, they must have read aloud nearly the entire damn menu. It was, as you were finding to be a theme with them, oddly sweet for high-ranking Mafiosi.

You murmured appreciation for something that had scraped out praise from Gokudera and still seemed relatively cheap—old habits died hard—and Sawada offered to order it for you. He also tried to order you wine, but you declined it; you still had work that afternoon, and while one glass was hardly enough to faze you, it was the principle of the thing. He didn’t push, and he actually seemed pleased with your response. That feeling was back—like you’d passed another test you didn’t know you were taking. You _really_ disliked that feeling.

“So,” Sawada said once the orders were placed. “How did you end up working for Fratelli?”

You frowned at him, but he just smiled gently.

“I’m asking about _you_ ,” he said, “not the Family.”

You considered him for a moment, but his face never strayed from its pleasant expression. “Fair enough,” you said, and he grinned at the words. “How much do already you know?”

Sawada laughed. “I feel like I shouldn’t tell you,” he said, that mischievous look on his face again. “Just pretend I don’t know anything?”

You gave him a severely unimpressed look, which had zero impact on him, and answered anyway. “I tutored Nico and then Theo, too, when I was in undergrad and grad school, mostly in writing and composition.” You felt a smile tug at your lips from the memories. “Theo didn’t need it—at all, but he practically demanded it. Sibling rivalry, I suppose.”

You sipped at your water, missing Sawada’s stifled grin. “I suppose,” he said.

“That was a few years ago now,” you added, smile growing fond as you continued. You could feel yourself starting to relax even though you knew you _shouldn’t_. It helped if you just stared at your water instead of Sawada. “I still helped Nico with his college apps. You know, advice, feedback, that sort of thing. He was so worried, worked so hard.” Your smile turned wry. “Nico thinks I got him into college—not true, he did that _himself_ —but he insists.” You looked up to meet an amber gaze. “He starts this fall with Marguerite.”

Sawada nodded. “He’s very eager,” he said. “Wouldn’t stop talking about it once it came up.”

You laughed and nodded. “Drives Theo crazy,” you said. Nico’s excitement for college was annoying to the younger Fratelli, who couldn’t follow for a few more years. Theo hated the thought of being so far from his brother.

“You finished with a Masters?” Sawada prompted.

“Yes,” you confirmed. You left out that Fratelli had all but funded your graduate career himself, between overpaying you to tutor the boys and the occasional ‘bonus’ for doing the odd, administrative task for him. Instead, you jumped straight to the end, saying, “Then Mr. Fratelli hired me soon after.”

You gave Sawada a shrug and apologetic smile. “I’m not sure what you were expecting, Mr. Sawada, but it’s a rather boring tale.”

Sawada seemed unconcerned. “And you became Fratelli’s secretary, yes?”

You gave him a pointed look, but he smiled and said, “Still asking about _you_.”

“Yes,” you said, choosing your words with care. “He took me on officially in his main office.”

“But you’re not in the main office now,” Sawada’s smile was suddenly a small, brittle thing.

“Technically, I am,” you said, feeling a spike of wariness. You hesitated, then added carefully. “Mr. Sawada… I don’t want to paint a poor picture of things, and forgive me, but you seem to have already drawn your own conclusions.”

Gokudera made an annoyed sound, but Sawada just sent him a glance. If Grumpy had been gearing up to say something, he thought better of it. There were a few heartbeats of strained silence.

“Please understand,” you continued, navigating your words like they were live mines. “Mr. Fratelli was very kind to me when he didn’t have to be.”

“But he’s not anymore?”

You blinked at Sawada, unsure of what to make of his tone or the unreadable look on his face. So you tried his own redirection tactic, casting him a sardonic look and injecting just a bit of snark into your tone. “Didn’t Theo tell you when you were bonding?”

Sawada’s inscrutable expression eased on a smile. “Touché.”

Your food arrived soon after, and for a while all three of you were distracted by eating. It was delicious, and you let yourself savor it, knowing this type of cuisine was way out of your budget. Conversation perked up again, but Sawada kept it light now, asking about the summer weather and favored sports. The latter topic made Gokudera _cringe._

“Baseball is the ‘National Pastime’ here, yes?” Sawada was asking you, but he was watching Gokudera’s reaction out of the corner of his eyes.

“It’s called that, yes,” you said. “Are you a fan?”

Sawada grinned. “Not as much as Yamamoto,” he said. “But it’s hard not to like it when he’s so _enthusiastic_ about it.”

Gokudera had that pained look on his face.

“Not so much a fan?” you asked him, flashing him a look of pure innocence. Sawada laughed.

Grumpy sent you a look of _utter betrayal_ , and you bit back your grin in favor of the biggest puppy-dog eyes you could muster. “It’s not my favorite,” he finally gritted out.

“Hmmm, too bad,” you said. You nibbled at your lunch and then glanced up at Sawada. He was smothering his laughter and sending a not-so-apologetic look Gokudera’s way. “If I may ask,” you said. “Where is Mr. Yamamoto?”

“ _Mister_ Yamamoto,” Gokudera grumbled, like he found the respectful addition personally insulting.

“He’s running an errand for me,” Sawada said, but his tone had that pleasant, distant ring to it that told you it was not up for discussion. _Family business_. So you nodded and dropped the question immediately.

You declined desert when the meal ended, conscious that if you didn’t get back soon you would be unacceptably late to work. Sawada tried to reassure you that it was taken care of—saying you could take the whole afternoon, if you wanted—but you refused. It was your _work_. And so the men ushered you back into the sleek car, the ride back quiet and unexpectedly peaceful.

But the quiet just let you stew. Sawada said he liked Nico and Theo, but what did that mean for Fratelli? You found yourself wondering, again, what it meant for the boys if Sawada decided he didn’t like Fratelli, or chose not to…‘invest’ in the Family. Would he absorb them into his own? Turn them into pawns for his own ends? Remove them entirely?

You frowned out your window, resisting the urge to fidget or rub at the scar on your chin. He would likely leave them be, you told yourself. Why would Sawada move against a Family across the Atlantic? Partnering might bring nice profits, but the Vongola didn’t benefit at all from removing the Fratelli. Sawada could take over their interests, yes, but it would be difficult and resource-consuming to maintain them so far from home. Not practical at all. Right?

“So do you think he’s worth it?” you blurted. You winced, but it was too late, so you just tried again. “Do you think Mr. Fratelli is worth your investment?”

 Sawada considered you carefully, that amber edge returning to his eyes, but you refused to look away from his almost probing gaze.

“With all do respect,” he said quietly, “I don’t think I should discuss Family business with you.”

You were surprised by the spike of pain the words brought. You told yourself he meant _his_ Family, but you couldn’t shake the implication that you weren’t a Fratelli anymore, no longer _your_ Family, no longer trusted. But you nodded, simply saying, “Fair,” and letting it drop.

But Sawada didn’t seem to want to drop it.

“Why do you care?” he asked, his tone curious and…surprisingly gentle. Like he knew his words had hurt. “From what I hear, there’s no love lost between you and Fratelli.”

You frowned at him. “He’s my boss,” you said, but you were thinking of the boys—Nico, stubborn but _trying_ so hard all the time, putting family and Family first, huffy and vain but always ready to back you—Theo, blushing and earnest and a bit sulky, almost blindly devoted to his brother, and always quick to help when you were down—“my Family,” you said, almost to yourself. “What other reason do I need?”

Sawada eyed you thoughtfully, that bright edge softening into something more warm than sharp. You felt awkward and exposed for a few heartbeats, and then, “I don’t think Fratelli is worth it,” he answered. You closed your eyes, breaking from his gaze and trying not to let your mind fall back into the tumble of what-ifs surrounding the Fratelli heirs—“But Nico and Theo,” Sawada interrupted the beginning of your anxious spiral. “I think _they_ are worth it.”

You met his eyes again, almost aching with relief and trying to school your expression but certain you were failing. “Yeah,” you breathed. “They are.”

Even if Don Fratelli didn’t want your loyalty, he had it—for the brothers’ sake if nothing else.

Sawada was smiling at you. You were reminded of Yamamoto, that look that said he knew everything you were feeling, and for a moment you couldn’t breathe. Who _were_ these men?

You were in something of a daze when Sawada escorted you back into the building, Gokudera in place behind and to his right. Vittoria must have seen you return, because you heard the clatter of something like a phone receiver falling inside her office when you passed her door.

Sawada wished you a good day, and even Gokudera muttered a polite goodbye, and then they were gone. In and out of your office like a gale, and your mind felt disarrayed and scattered in their wake. _Chaos demons_.

You sat at your desk and breathed. You counted the first inhale before Vittoria was poking her head in your office.

“What are you doing?” she hissed.

You shook your head and shrugged helplessly, words still a touch beyond you at the moment.

She glanced down the hall, which you were sure was empty by now, and then looked back at you. “Why were you with _them_?”

The whole lunch experience crashed down you, and you groaned, burying your head in your hands. “Because I have lost control of my life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More thanks to those commenting! You're the best! :D
> 
> Also thanks to everyone leaving kudos. I see you there. ;)


	8. In which Lunch Goes Awry Yet Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visitation Arc 
> 
> 5 Days Left

 

You were almost expecting one of the Vongola men the next day, but your morning was entirely uninterrupted. When lunch rolled around, you stopped by Vittoria’s office to grab her and you both walked to _Aguas Azules_ completely unharrassed by chaos demons.

It wasn’t until you were opening the door for Vittoria to head in first that you felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. You followed Vittoria inside, letting the door swing shut behind you and _not_ looking back.

You sat at your usual table, suddenly very concerned about your predictable routines. It had never been a huge concern before, first because you were a member of the Fratelli and _protected_ and then because changing things around wouldn’t help you a lick if Fratelli decided to finally remove you. You’d fight them, of course, but there was no point in being unrealistic about it.

Nico had asked you to change your routine when Parker started his campaign. You had refused; you would _not_ kowtow to the officer and you wanted Nico to be able to _find_ you if something went wrong. And, up until now, Parker never approached you on Fratelli grounds. He was smarter than that, always picking a neutral and fairly public location. 

You casually looked out the front windows as you seated yourself, and Parker raised a coffee mug from across the street. He was smiling cheerfully, but everything about his posture screamed tension.

He was sitting in the little café, on a high bar stool overlooking the street—and a good shot of _Aguas Azules_. You wanted to flip him off, but your anger was overpowered by your fear and you pretended not to see him, your head swirling back to knights and kings and half-empty chess boards.

“And then Alex just peed all over Simon,” Vittoria was saying with a grin. “Apparently there’s a time limit on diaper changes before—”

Your expression must not have been as collected as you wanted it to be, because Vittoria’s smile was gone and she was looking distinctly worried.

“Before…?”

“Oh no,” Vittoria shook a finger at you. “I _know_ that face. I get _bad_ _feelings_ about that face. Spill.”

You cleared your throat quietly. “Café across the street,” you said, flipping up the menu even though you almost always ordered the same thing. You didn’t have to tell Vittoria not to look; she knew better.

“Who?” Vittoria asked, all business as she pretended to be equally engrossed in her own menu. “Please tell me Tall and Dark.”

“Of course not,” you said, annoyance filtering through. “It’s Mr. fucking king-killer complex.”

Vittoria bit her lip, then rummaged around in her purse, sneaking a glance out the far windows as she did so. She pulled out her chapstick, applying it with a shaky hand before tossing it carelessly back into her bag.

“He looks… happy?” she muttered. “But also... really super creepy.”

“Yup,” you agreed, fiddling with your phone and sending Nico a quick text. He didn’t answer right away. You had to count out your next inhale, so accustomed to the teen’s new habit of immediately responding that the few minutes’ delay felt grating on your nerves.

“Okay, no, he looks _really not happy_ ,” Vittoria whispered.

She sounded scared, and you gritted your teeth and willed Nico to answer already. You could still feel Parker’s gaze like a cold, slimy residue on your neck, and you didn’t know what to do. Confronting him was out of the question, and Nico was ghosting you. Again.

“He’s not focusing on you,” you said.

“What does that matter?” she said. “A hurricane doesn’t give two shits about the next neighborhood over but it’ll still destroy it after it hits the coast.”

 You resisted the urge to point out that hurricanes also didn’t stalk said neighborhood, that mindless storm systems didn’t leave taunting riddles about how and where they were going to strike. “If it helps,” you said instead, “I don’t think he’ll try anything. Not here, at least.”

“It doesn’t,” she answered, chewing the chapstick right off her lip. “And you’re rubbing your jaw again.”

You lowered your hand immediately, busying yourself with your phone to keep your hands distracted. After a moment of hesitation, you flagged the waiter and asked for your regular orders to go.

Vittoria looked startled, and you simply said, “you really want to eat here right now?”

She pursed her lips into a severe frown, but shook her head.

“He won’t try anything on Family grounds,” you said again. You weren’t sure now who you were trying to convince more. “And I think we’ll both feel safer in the office.”

Vittoria didn’t answer beyond a short nod. For the next few minutes, she was very quiet, glancing aside now and again and you wished she’d stop trying to sneak another peak at your resident stalker. How she’d managed to evade his attention with coming to your rescue _twice_ now was mind-boggling, and you did not want to push that luck. In fact…

“Why don’t you take Loreto up on his offer?” you asked. “You’ve been saving your time off, right?”

“Yes,” Vittoria said, “I have—for a torrid fling, not a babysitting gig, thank you very much.”

“Tori.” Your voice was very soft, and she met your eyes head on with a serious expression. “I don’t want you in the city this weekend.”

“You think he’s going to make his move before the V—the _Boss-Man_ and his men leave?”

“I don’t know,” you said. “But I do know that _I do not like_ how ballsy he’s being. And I really don’t want you in the crossfire.”

“Oh, _now_ I’m supposed to go? When you think there’s going to be _crossfire_?”

“Be realistic,” you almost hissed the words, but paused and focused on breathing for a second. “He’s already targeting me, and he’s _definitely_ targeting the Family. So far, he’s let you off. Please, _please_ take advantage of that.”

“I’m not just leaving you to the fucking wolves,” Vittoria hissed right back. “If he wants to tumble with you, he’s gotta watch his back because I _will_ claw his damn eyes out.”

You took a deep breath, trying to stamp out the fear of that sudden image. Vittoria kept her nails immaculate, and the visual she described was all too ready to leap into your imagination. “At least…think about it?”

“Sure,” she said. She stared at you intently for about a second and a half, and then, “Done thinking, answer’s still no.”

You were about to say something when your phone chimed. Your wave of relief was a little short-lived when you realized it was Theo texting you, and not Nico responding.

‘ _hows lunch? nice adn quiet? Ur welcome!!! <3 <3 <3_’

You sighed, knowing the teen meant well but you would actually _prefer_ the Vongola crashed your lunch again right now.

‘ _Tell your brother to answer his goddamn phone._ ’

“Nico?” Vittoria asked, looking hopeful.

You shook your head, barely opening your mouth to answer when Theo responded.

‘ _wahts wrng???? whre r u???_ ’

“Theo,” you told Vittoria and began to type your response, vaguely aware of the waiter calling up your to-go order, of Vittoria grabbing her bag and heading over immediately. But your response to Theo was suddenly interrupted by a text from Nico.

‘ _Office. Now._ ’

You grabbed your own bag, glancing outside and suppressing a surge of panic when you couldn’t see Parker in café window. You walked over to where Vittoria was signing the receipt and collected the boxes for her.

 “Nico wants us back in the office,” you said. “Asap.”

“No complaints here,” Vittoria said. She smiled stiffly at the waiter and returned the pen, keeping pace with you easily as you strode quickly for the door and then out onto the bright sidewalk.

“I don’t see him in the café.” Vittoria’s voice was a bit shaky, and you hated how scared she sounded.

“I know,” you said, and then, on impulse. “Here.”

Vittoria accepted the boxes you handed over, and you pulled out your phone.

Nico answered after the first ring, and you could hear the sound of traffic and someone speaking quietly—giving orders? You couldn’t make out the voice or the words but that commanding tone sounded familiar—in the background as Nico fired off questions. “What’s happening? Has he approached you? How close to the office are you?”

“Lost sight of him,” you answered, “no, and we just left.”

“Stay on the line, we’re on our way.”

“No, I thought I’d just call and hang up immediately,” you snapped, and you immediately felt guilty but your nerves screaming at you that you were being watched. “And _don’t_ bring Theo,” you added. The younger teen tended to get easily worked up when it came to protecting you. It was sweet, really it was, but you couldn’t deal with calming him down when you were feeling rather upset yourself.

Nico ignored your request. “Is he following you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Check.”

“Wow,” you said, feeling too shaky from adrenaline to stop yourself. “Great advice. I never would have thought of something so _easy_. Don’t worry, Tori, everything’s gonna be fine because Nico just gave me the _best fucking advice_.”

Nico’s sigh was old beyond his years, but he let the sarcasm slide.

Nonetheless, you tried to glance around you as casually as possible while you waited at a crosswalk. And there Parker was, half a block back, facing a window but his head turned so he could stare right at you. His lip curled into that plastic smile and he mimed holding a phone up to his ear. You were about to turn around again when his hand moved to slide his fingers loosely across his throat.

It was so cliché you were almost more _annoyed_ than afraid.

You flipped him off.

His look of utter shock was almost comical for all the second or two it lasted before it was overtaken by rabid _fury_.

“Worth it,” you muttered as you turned to face forward.

There was a pause. And then, sounding both very tired and very peeved, Nico asked, “What did you do?”

The light changed, and you and Vittoria began walking again, though you urged her to walk a bit faster than you had been before. “Can’t talk now,” you answered. “Power walking for our lives.”

Nico cursed in a mixture of English and Italian—and Japanese? Where had he picked _that_ up? You thought of Grumpy’s perpetually disgruntled attitude and felt yourself answered. But that also meant he was spending quite a lot of time with the Vongola men, his _father’s_ guests. You weren’t sure how Don Fratelli felt about that, or if he even knew that Sawada had deemed the brothers more suitable for…whatever he wanted from the Fratelli in the first place.

But now was a bad time to be thinking about that. The cold, slimy sensation had turned particularly gooey, and you refused to look back. You knew Parker was following, and you knew he was pissed now.

Well, too fucking bad because so were you.

You reported your progress at every cross-street until you breezed into the office building with Vittoria.

“Heading upstairs now,” you said, nodding to Bruce and taking the sweeping staircase to the second-floor offices at dangerously brisk pace. Vittoria was right behind you, pausing at the top to glance back at the vaulted lobby. She gasped, and you couldn’t resist looking down as well.

You hissed in a breath of shock when you saw Parker just beside the glass doors, smoothing his hair in the window’s reflection like he had no reason to fear being on that street. He looked in your direction, and you knew he shouldn’t know where you were—the windows were treated and almost mirror-like from the outside—but that didn’t stop the feeling of uneasiness, the feeling of _being watched_.

You grabbed Vittoria by the wrist and all but hauled her to her office. Her face was shell-shocked, distress and alarm seeping through her surprised expression and you decided right then that you didn’t care if you had to lock her in the damn trunk and have Jacob drive her upstate to her brother’s, she was _leaving town_.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3 Thank you again to reviewers! I kinda wish I could do something for you? But I don't know what? I'm bad at social. :(
> 
>  But hey, some of ya'll's comments make me want to add little tid-bits to end-notes. Like, stupid background stuff that probably won't fit into the main story but that I tend to ramble about on the Tumbs. Like Theo's first name being Teodoro but he HATES it, and he hates 'Teo' too but finds Theo bearable? Because it doesn't remind him AS MUCH of "Teddy bear"?
> 
>  Or my sort of? headcannon that the golden trio picked up character traits from Reborn--after 10+ years, he had to rub off on them at least a little.  Like Yamamoto got some of his penchant for straight up messing with people, a little sadistic but somehow not quite mean? Gokudera is just a demon of a taskmaster with his squads--they love/hate him 'cause of it but they're THE BEST but also always Tired(tm).  And Tsuna, in addition to his Don Face, got that pseudo-mind-reading thing, only x10 because of Hyper-Intuition and his capacity to be a bit of a dick.
> 
>  And Reborn just, finding it 110% hilarious because it's like, yes my minions grow, fly, be freeee.
> 
>  ....so, yeah, would ya'll be at all interested in that?


	9. In which Teenagers Try to Shoulder Too Much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visitation Arc 
> 
> 5 Days Left

 

 

By the end of the day, you’d decided Wednesday could go fuck itself.

You had settled Vittoria in her office with warm tea, had a quick word with Bruce about unwelcome visitors in the neighborhood (Parker thankfully gone from the front street), and then proceeded to argue with Vittoria for two hours about leaving town. She had flat-out refused to spend even a day out of the city. You were beginning to think you’d have to get _conniving_ about it, and put the argument on hold to check your office phone for messages. You were still at work, after all.

And then you found yourself busy trying to get work down while feeling terribly distracted. You fielded one fire—Jacob was worried when the Vongola men didn’t take the car back to their hotel after lunch, and no, he didn’t want to ask Marguerite about it, she’d just worry, too—and two demanding phone calls—one from the Gulf firm asking why that deduction had been flagged this morning and another from Sawada because your life wasn’t already hectic enough.

“Didn’t mean to worry Jacob,” he said after a pleasant greeting, “but something came up this afternoon and we decided to take a walk instead.”

“Something came up?” you asked, too agitated to keep the snark out of your tone. “Something that you _didn’t_ want to take the faster, more secure vehicle for?”

“Exactly.” If Sawada had noticed your sarcasm, he gave no indication. “I knew you’d understand.”

You were almost proud of yourself for not snapping out a retort to that, but before you could politely disengage the call, Sawada asked, “Are you doing well?”

It was an innocuous question, just a generic, polite inquiry. But it didn’t _sound_ generic. It sounded pointed, like Sawada had something particular in mind when he asked.  You wondered if he knew about this afternoon, then chided yourself because _of course_ he probably knew.  

“Well enough,” you said. “Thank you for asking. Yourself?”

He made a noncommittal noise. “Yamamoto was disappointed to miss you at lunch yesterday.”

“Oh?” You asked, unsure of what to make of that comment. Flustered, you asked, “And how was his…errand? Successful, I hope?”

“Stubborn,” Sawada answered. He sounded like he was smiling, and you decided that you were spending far too much time around him to be able to tell something like that. “But so am I, and Yamamoto isn’t one to give up easily.”

“I believe it,” you said, relieved that the off-limits topic had gone over smoothly. And then, because you were feeling a bit desperate, you plunged forward before you could chicken out. “You _are_ persuasive as sin--can I get a favor?”

There was a pause, and you fleetingly wondered if you’d finally overstepped your bounds.

“You think I’m persuasive as _sin_?” he asked. You blushed, grateful he couldn’t see you. You weren’t sure if he was going for sexy or amused, but his tone was definitely teasing. Then he sounded almost incredulous when he laughed, “What does that even mean?”

“It _means_ you can talk water out of a stone,” you said, feeling flustered again and perhaps overly brave at the lack of chastisement—it helped that you couldn’t see those piercing amber eyes. Still, you refrained from mentioning your theory about chaos demons. Calling the Vongola Don a devil of a man was probably going too far, no matter how accurate it felt at the moment.

“I…want Vittoria to leave town for the weekend,” you said cautiously, frantically searching for an explanation—should you even give one? Or keep it ambiguous?

“Ah, yes,” Sawada interrupted your musings. “Because of…your shadow.”

You bit your lip and exhaled slowly, accepting the confirmation that yes, Sawada already knew all about Parker. “I’m not going to ask how you know,” you said.

“You don’t have to,” Sawada said, sounding amused again. “You already know.”

“Probably, but nonetheless,” you said, “Vittoria has a brother far enough upstate to be a safe bet, but she’s being…obstinate. And all things considered….”

“You’d rather she not stay in town,” he finished.

You nodded, then felt like an idiot because _you were on the phone_ , but Sawada just hummed thoughtfully, and then asked, “Put her on the line?”

It took _five minutes_. After two hours of arguing with your clearly terrified friend, it took Sawada five goddamned minutes to cajole a promise out of Vittoria, with only a few abortive protests from her at the start. You were grateful—you really were, honestly—but you were also supremely annoyed.

Vittoria returned your phone to you with an odd look on her face. Then she saw your expression and _blushed_. You were so very confused; what did he _say_ to her? She lifted her chin to a stubborn angle and raised her finger imperiously, saying, “ _Just_ this weekend,” before sweeping back out of your office like a spurned queen.

“How do you _do_ that?” you couldn’t resist asking.

Sawada hummed again, the sound pleased; the amusement was back in his voice when he asked, “So what do I get for that favor?”

You felt something in your chest go haywire. “I’m open to negotiation,” you answered, striving for an unaffected, vague tone.

“Oh, good,” Sawada all but purred. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He was _toying_ with you, wasn’t he? Feeling peevish—and _not_ because he sounded delicious using that tone of voice—you said, “That sounds ominous. Maybe I should leave town, too, before you collect.”

“Oh, you definitely should, yes,” Sawada answered, tone light, teasing again. “But you won’t.”

You opened your mouth to respond, closed it, opened it again. Then, “I might.”

“No, you won’t,” Sawada insisted. “You’re _stubborn_.”

“I am not.”

He laughed.

Annoyed and exasperated by Fratelli’s _maddening_ guests, you gave a stiff, “I have to get back to work.”

Sawada returned a polite, if a bit shaky from mirth, farewell and you threw yourself into your next task, one eye constantly on the clock and _not_ thinking about Fratelli’s guests.

At half-past four, you texted Nico.

‘ _You said you were on your way? It’s been hours, should I worry?_ ’

 ‘ _doing footwork. dont leave the office w/o me_.’

You grimaced, torn between relief that he was using polysyllabic responses again, but also chafing at his commanding tone. ‘ _What footwork? Taking up ballet?_ ’ Then, chiding yourself, you offered, ‘ _Also_ _I told Bruce to watch out for pissy police. He knows him by face now._ ’

‘ _good. you still dont leave the office w/o me tonite_.’

You glanced back to the clock on your monitor, though you already knew the time. Nico had been out doing ‘footwork’ all afternoon. And while you knew it wasn’t _really_ any of your business, he’d also told you stay put several times already like you were a puppy in training and while yes, you knew it was for your own safety, it still irked. A little info would be nice.

‘ _Can I get an ETA on that? Or am I supposed to listen for tap shoes, twinkle-toes?_ ’

‘ _I know its hard but dont be a smartass_ ’

You rolled your eyes. Relief was overtaking irritation; you’d missed how you and Nico used to poke at each other.

‘ _Whatever you say, footloose_.’

‘ _I WILL leave you to bunk under your desk_ ’

You surveyed your office space. ‘ _I don’t know, could probably make a decent blanket fort in here_.’

‘ _are you twelve?_ ’

You could almost hear Nico’s voice, exasperated but fighting off a smile. ‘ _Theo’d bring me ice cream. And you wouldn’t get any._ ’

‘ _youre twelve_ ’

 Fifteen minutes later, Nico walked into your office, a paper bag in hand. “Ah,” you said. “Thought I heard a suspicious tap-tap-tapping down the hall.”

He sent you a dirty look. “Keep it up,” he said, reaching into the bag to pull out a carton of ice cream, “and _I’m_ not sharing.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Wait, you actually got ice cream?”

Nico shrugged, looking away and cocking his hip, the picture of casual disinterest. “Yeah, well, Theo’s busy and you had a bad day.”

You felt a genuine smile creep up your lips, your first probably all day. “You’re a very sweet guy, you know that?”

Nico scoffed, but his cheeks were dusting pink. “Just grab your bag,” he said. “Ice cream’s melting.”

You waved to Vittoria on your way out, Nico pausing to assure her that Bruce would be walking her home, and no excuses. She huffed, but didn’t put up as much of a fight as you expected. She was either still very scared, or Sawada was _very persuasive_. Possibly both.

You wondered again what the hell he said to her.

“Thank you for not bringing Theo,” you said once you were in the car. It was silly—you lived well within walking distance, and with evening traffic flooding the roads it would be faster just to hoof it—but you appreciated the extra feeling of security. “Is he doing okay?”

“He’s fine,” Nico said. “Talking to Gokudera. Y’know, right-hand to right-hand.”

You gave him a suspicious look at that. “Okay.” You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t your business, but you were getting sick and tired of being left out to dry. “Any particular reason they need to chat hand-to-hand?”

Nico just shrugged. “Not really.” He didn’t look you in the eyes.

You considered for a moment, remembering Sawada’s careful admission about supporting the Fratelli brothers—not the Don, he’d said, but his sons. “If it helps,” you said. “I don’t know if I _should_ trust them, but I think I do. At least with you and Theo.”

Nico met your gaze for a moment, then moved them back out the window. “Yeah,” he said. “They’re…” he paused, then shrugged again. “I like them. Theo, too.”

Nico shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. You felt a warning bell go off in the back of your mind.

“And…they want to help.” Nico suddenly found the door latch very interesting. “With…y’know.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do I?”

Nico nodded, but still wouldn’t look at you.

“Help with Parker?” you ventured, but you knew Nico wouldn’t be this evasive if it were as simple as that.

“Yeah,” Nico said. “And, you know with the…the other thing.”

“What other thing, Nico?”

He grimaced, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He took a breath and straightened his shoulders, his face going serious. “You’re Family,” he said, meeting your eyes dead on. “And as the next boss, that makes you my responsibility.”

“Oh, no,” you groaned. “Nico, please, tell me you _didn’t_ —”

“It’s my duty to protect you,” he continued. “And they can help—they _want_ to help.”

“Help with _what_?”

“You _know_ with what.”

“No,” you said. “ _No_. That is not their business. It’s not even your business, Nico. That’s between Mr. Fratelli and me—”

“It _is_ my business,” Nico said. “Dad’s freaking out. He doesn’t like to show it, but he is and he’s taking it out on you—”

“I can handle it,” you said.

“No, you can’t!” Nico’s voice cracked, and despite the grown-up Don voice he was trying to use, all you could think was that he was so young for this—too young. “Dad’s going to retire soon—”

“Soon?” you interrupted. “He’s in perfect health and you have _college_ to attend and—”

 “He’s _going_ to retire—” You were already shaking your head, opening your mouth to argue, but Nico plowed ahead desperately. “And I want you to be still alive when he does!”

That froze the words in your throat.

“I know Dad talked to you last week—I know what he _said_.” Nico’s eyes looked damp, his face flushed, but his expression was set like stone. Determined. “And I’m not gonna let it happen.”

You swallowed thickly. So did Nico.

“I want you still alive when I become boss,” he continued, quieter. “You were my teacher, you took care of us. You’re _Family_. That means now I take care of you.”

“And—” you had to stop, swallow again. “And you think Sawada is the way to do that.”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation in his voice, no doubt.

You covered your face in your hands for a moment, mind spilling over the implications. “Nico, your father is going to be _livid_.”

“So? Tsuna said he’d have our backs, no matter what I decided.”

You groaned. “And decided _what_? What are you deciding?” Was Sawada encouraging the Fratelli brothers to rebel? To just split the Family in a civil war? Because that’s what it sounded like.

Nico ignored your question entirely. “Look, I’m sorry, but I…” he took a deep breath, but his eyes were steady on yours. “I gave them some…personal information. So they’d understand that it wasn’t your fault, that Dad’s being unfair.”

You shook your head, knowing damn well what ‘personal information’ Nico had given them and hating that you didn’t know _how much_ they knew about Dominic. “Why? Why would you—Nico, why would they even care? They have no… _investment_ in me.”

“But I do,” Nico said, his voice almost cracking again. “And Theo does. And…I don’t know, I guess I’m kinda hoping they’ll see why and…and then they’ll be invested, too.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” you said, keeping your voice as gentle as possible. “Sawada isn’t a knight in shining armor, come to rescue me.”

“Why not?” He winced and frowned at his hands, and you knew he was trying to control his emotions. “I know it sounds stupid, but I mean it—Tsuna’s all about rescuing people in need. And—and he _likes_ us.” Nico looked a little awed at that.

You watched Nico carefully, ordering your thoughts. The teen seemed perilously close to hero-worshiping Sawada, and while the don was very charismatic, and he was also very…careful with the faces he presented. You were reluctant to think ill of Sawada—he was _very_ charismatic, and you weren’t sure you could trust your own feelings in that regard—but you also didn’t want Nico to be crushed if this was just another mask Sawada wore for Family business.

You took another deep breath. One problem at a time. “Okay. What does this ‘help’ look like, exactly?”

“He’s been talking to Dad,” Nico said, almost mumbling the answer. “And…sending out feelers.”

You didn’t want to know about Sawada’s conversations with Fratelli, didn’t think you could stand the dread of discussing that prospect. “Feelers?” you asked instead.

Nico glanced at you and then away. “Checking things out.”

You sighed. “Checking _me_ out.”

“Sort of?” Nico looked _so guilty_. “It’s…it’s part of this idea he has?” At the look on your face he quickly added, “It’s a good idea! It’ll work.”

 “Then why won’t you _tell_ me it?”

Nico shook his head. “I can’t. You’ll be biased and it’ll mess things up.”

 You leaned your head back and focused on breathing. _Chaos demons_. They were chaos demons and they were infecting the Fratelli sons with their pandemonium.

After a few long breaths, Nico added, “Sawada agreed with me, by the way.”

“About what?”

“About you.”

You looked up to meet his eyes. “You’re a bit bias yourself in that area.”

A smile tugged at Nico’s mouth. “Yeah, but he still agreed. He thinks Dad’s making a mistake wanting you…gone.” There was a moment of somberness at the reminder, but then Nico gave a quick laugh and winked at you. “Gokudera said it’d be a waste.”

You raised a brow at that. “Did he? Mr. Grumpy-pants himself?”

Nico smiled, and the tension in the backseat eased considerably. “Yeah, Theo was a little jealous.”

You snorted. “I’m sure Gokudera likes him plenty.”

Nico gave you a long-suffering look, and you frowned, confused. “Well, aren’t they talking right-hand to right-hand?” Gokudera didn’t seem the type to do something like that for just anyone; ergo, he must like Theo at least a little bit. …Or Sawada told him to do it.

“He gets a one-on-one Q&A,” you mused, pretending to balance the ideas in your hands like a set of scales. “I get told third-hand that I’m not a waste of air.”

Nico just rolled his eyes and smiled, relaxing back into his seat. “Yeah, Yamamoto said you should probably feel honored.”

“I’ll get right on that,” you said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost didn't get this one done by today! (SORRY! Ya'll're all so nice in the reviews, the least I can do is try to update regularly!) It was supposed to be half of a chapter in the outline, but nope, Tsuna was a talkative bastard.
> 
> And, because ya'll said you didn't mind: fun facts! This was gonna be mentioned vaguely in convo, but then didn't fit. Over the weekend, Tsuna told Nico and Theo that he sees 'em as his little brothers. 'Cause Dino did that for him when he was young, and he won't admit it, but Tsuna's got a thing for adopting smol mafia children. It's like he Can't Help It, it just Happens. (It doesn't just happen, Tsuna, you're actively encouraging it, gdi.) It helps that Theo kind of reminds him of a slightly crankier, much less clumsy version of himself at that age--complete with crush on Unattainable Female(TM). 
> 
> Nico does not remind Tsuna of himself. Nico reminds him a little of Gokudera if Gokudera hadn't been raised on gunpowder and Angst. Just, all ambition and too-cool-exterior covering a big, sappy heart. Gokudera does not see the resemblance.


	10. In which There is Flagrant Disregard for Federal Laws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [[Visitation Arc – 4 Days Left]]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, wow, ya'll are awesome for sticking with this after that long delay.   
> I've got the next chapter outlined, and the last two of the arc written. It's just a matter of fleshing out that last intervening chapter or two. I...wish I could promise more.

 

 

You glared at your door as you locked it, eyeing the newest defacement with your jaw clenched hard enough to make your teeth ache.

You’d done your best to sand it down, but the letters had been rather deeply carved into the wood, scratching messily over the glass of the peephole. You were reluctant to paint over it, not wanting the blue to pool in the divots and become even more distinct. You’d done a quick internet search, learning that wood putty would fill the gaps without leaving much trace if sanded down properly. And, of course, you didn’t have wood putty—hadn’t even heard of it before last night—so you had to wait for the weekend _again_ before you could properly fix your door— _again_.

As it was, you consoled yourself, the bare tan of the wood was doing a decent job of deemphasizing the harsh, angular letters of ‘ _Narc Bich_ ’.

And wasn’t that just the cherry on top? They _misspelled_ the fucking word. The morons couldn’t even insult you properly! And it was driving you crazy. Which was why, just before bed, you’d quickly popped out with a red marker and added a hasty _^t_ just beneath its proper place.

You felt silly, but it had helped you take back control of your anxious reaction to the escalating vandalism. Even though you had still slept like shit the night before, it was…better.

 With a sigh, you rubbed at your eyes and waited for the elevator, feeling exhausted already. You opened your eyes to the slightly off-key ‘ding’ of the lift arriving, stepping forward almost before the doors opened and nearly running right into a broad chest.

You yelped, stepping back and catching sight of Yamamoto’s brown eyes a half-second before his bubbly “hello!” made your heart stop in an icy moment of panic. Without thinking, you shoved him further into the elevator so you could step in, hand slamming the lobby button without needing to look.

“What are you doing in my apartment building?!” you hissed. He just grinned and waved, but you plowed right over him, heart racing as the elevator doors sluggishly closed behind you and hoping he didn’t _see anything_. “Why do you know where I live—that’s creepy!”

“You want to know ‘why’ but not ‘how’?” Gokudera asked, managing somehow to sound both amused and disdainful.

You jerked your gaze to where he lounged against the back of the lift, pursing your lips and cursing that you hadn’t noticed him right away. “Asking ‘how’ would be stupid,” you said. “You could find whatever you wanted and we both know it. What’s important is _why_ you wanted to know in the first place.”

Gokudera stared you down for a moment, and you glared right back until he shrugged and grunted. “Boss is waiting downstairs,” he said, answering absolutely nothing and making a new wave of dread rise in you. _Why_ was the Vongola Boss waiting in your apartment lobby?!

“What, got tired of crashing lunch?” You nearly bit your tongue as soon as the words were out. What was it about these men that destroyed your composure?

“Didn’t want to bug you at work,” Gokudera said, tone pointed and sharp.

“Never stopped you before,” you blurted. Your confidence in their lack of aggression was becoming alarming in its own right.

Grumpy’s lip curled at that, and you prepared yourself for him to draw a weapon, but he never made the move. “We’re busy, too, you know,” he growled.

“With what, being attached to Sawada’s hip?” You were definitely high on the adrenaline of sassing the Vongola Right Hand and _surviving_. There was no other explanation for your lack of a filter this morning.

But the deadliest thing he was sending your way was a nasty look. “That _is_ my job,” he sneered.

You shot a quick glance at Yamamoto, not really expecting him to retaliate if Gokudera wasn’t going to, but unable to resist checking anyway. His grin was almost _gleeful_.

You were immediately suspicious, eyes narrowing on that expression. “Why is he smiling like that?”

Gokudera just shrugged, not even bothering to look at his friend. “He’s an idiot. He can’t help it.”

Yamamoto brightly chattered something at Gokudera in Japanese, but the man just rolled his eyes and made a rude gesture. You huffed, glancing at the elevator numbers’ arduous progress downward before pulling out your phone. You found the most generic translation site that popped up after the quick search and asked “Care to repeat that?”

Your phone repeated the question in stilted, robotic Japanese. You hit the reverse button and held it up, flashing Yamamoto a particularly winning smile.

Yamamoto blinked at you, looking startled, before a slow grin spread back over his face.

“I could’ve done that,” Gokudera grumbled.

“Frankly, I don’t trust you to be accurate about it,” you said, doing your best to replicate his acidic tone. For a moment, Gokudera looked vaguely offended, but just as he opened his mouth, you cut him off with an overly innocent, “Unless, of course, you _want_ to be reduced to menial translation work?”

Gokudera shut his mouth, that constipated look returning. He opened his mouth with one lip curled in a snarl, stopped, and you swore you could see the moment he realized he didn’t care enough to push it. Instead, he gave you a dismissive shrug and growled, “That’s a shitty app anyway.”

You opened your mouth to correct him—it wasn’t an app, really, and like hell were you letting him get the last word—when a soft touch on your wrist made you jump ten damn feet in the air. Your phone clattered to the floor.

Your head jerked back to Yamamoto, who was very carefully tracing the fading brown fingerprints on your wrist. You had thought the marks almost indiscernible by this point, yellowed in all but the most tender places, and yet Yamamoto’s suddenly intense look seemed to say otherwise.

You sputtered, tugging your hand away and awkwardly reaching for your fallen phone. Yamamoto was already there, handing it back to you while you were half-stooped. You accepted it cautiously, and he used the opportunity to tug your hand back into his grip and pull your thin sleeve further back, eyeing the entire faint handprint spread across your wrist. His smile was gone.

“Um…a little help?” Your voice was smaller than you meant it to be, and you tried to at least keep your gaze strict when you glanced to Gokudera.

He sighed and casually kicked Yamamoto in the hip. “Oi, smettila,” he snapped. “Lei la stai spaventare.”

“Stop it,” your phone monotoned, and you nearly dropped it again. “You are scaring her.”

You scowled, both at having forgotten about the translation site and Gokudera’s phrasing. “He’s not scaring me.”

Gokudera shrugged and didn’t bother to answer. Before he could say anything to Yamamoto, the taller man had changed his grip, his other hand quickly closing out the window on your phone before answering his friend. You concentrated hard, trying to recall your limited Italian. You recognized Fratelli’s name and of course Sawada and what sounded like a form of _proteggerla_ —protection?

“Nihonjin, baka!” Gokudera kicked Yamamoto again, harder this time if Yamamoto’s exasperated groan were anything to go by. They spoke in Japanese for a while, and you were entirely lost. From the brief look Gokudera sent you, that had been his intention.

You tugged your hand again, just as the elevator finally wheezed out its weak ‘ding’ and the doors creaked opened. Yamamoto let you pull free, continuing to squabble with Gokudera as you turned on your heel and strode away from the pair.

You were very sorely tempted to turn right back around when you saw Sawada casually standing in the lobby. He had some papers in his hands—envelopes, it looked like—and his face had that blank politeness that never failed to make you uneasy. Nico and Theo were hovering alongside him, speaking animatedly; Theo made a particularly sharp gesture, his face twisted in distress.

You were beside him almost before you’d fully recognized the expression, questions already rising to your lips, hand halfway raised to his shoulder. But then Sawada tucked the papers away, flashed you his 100-watt smile (it seemed a touch stiff this morning), and talked loudly over the brothers.

“Good morning,” he said, tone bright and friendly and a bit too familiar for the polite distance in his face. “Have you eaten?”

Nico and Theo stopped talking immediately, rapidfire Italian cut off so fast the lobby seemed to ring with silence. They both looked vaguely ill for a moment, but Nico quickly gathered himself, slapping on the churlish expression he wore when he was trying not to show anything at all. Theo’s poker face was more abysmal—he couldn’t meet your eyes, and the slightly green hue to his complexion hadn’t faded.

You stared him down, but other than a brief glance (a flash of his eyes before they widened and refused to look back at you—he must have recognized the look on your face), Theo pretended to find the wall of mailboxes utterly fascinating.

You waited a few more moments, willing to wait him out, but then Gokudera slipped beside him, muttered something to him in Italian, and Theo relaxed a touch, his eyes widening at the man in an expression you hadn’t seen since he was much smaller and more prone to awe.

If Gokudera caught the scowl you sent him, he gave no sign. He kept talking lowly to Theo, too low to overhear without crowding them, and the young man was thoroughly distracted from your probing glare. Pursing your lips, you focused on Nico.

Nico met your hard look head on, though his cranky expression softened at the edges. “You should eat,” his nose wrinkled for a moment, “if you haven’t yet.”

You narrowed your eyes a bit, and waited. Yamamoto started laughing, a quiet, stifled chuckle that ended in a snort. Nico flashed him a smile and a tiny shrug, and you knew what little power the Look still had on Nico, it was dispersed now, too.

Taking a deep breath, you leveled an icily polite gaze onto Sawada. The stiffness was nearly gone, lingering at the edges of his eyes, but that amusement was back, dancing beneath the polite mask. You felt a familiar irritation surge up.

“Is there a reason you’re harassing me in my home, now?”

“Harassing is such a strong word,” Sawada answered immediately. “I prefer…pursuing?”

You were about to snap out something unkind when the second part of his response hit you. To your embarrassment, you sputtered. Sawada’s tight, controlled smile began to split into a wide grin, and you had to force yourself to _stop_ , take a deep breath, and try again.

“Nonetheless, sir,” you said, doing your best to pretend you couldn’t feel the heat of a blush on your cheeks. “I would _prefer_ if you didn’t send your men to my door to—what? Fetch me? Why?”

“We should have breakfast,” Sawada said.

“Why are you always trying to feed me?!” You stopped, covered your face in your hands, took a deep breath, and tried again, this time _without_ the outburst. Instead, your words were ground out through gritted teeth. “What I mean, sir, is that you _really_ don’t need to bother yourself.”

“You don’t eat enough,” Sawada said, making a flippant gesture that was far too casual for how overbearing he was being.

“I rather think I do,” you said, crossing your arms.

“I mean, you do forget sometimes,” Theo rejoined the conversation.

You sent him a forbidding look, and then felt bad when he practically wilted beneath it. Another deep breath, and you flashed him a small smile, hoping he read the apology in it. 

His responding smile was barely there, a twitch of the lips followed by a downcast gaze. You frowned, wondering what had the young man so… delicate today. He was usually quick to forgive, quick to bounce back into enthusiasm. With school out for the summer, it wasn’t exams; and even Parker’s antics were met with a fiery, if worried, reaction. You didn’t think he was dating, so a breakup was out of the picture. Nico’s leaving for school? The Vongola visit?

Swallowing down the edge of concern, you made a note to ask Theo how he was doing later today. For now, you had to wrangle a gang of chaos demons.

The hand gently pressing against the small of your back startled you, distracted as you’d been with the younger Fratelli brother, and you bit back a noise of surprise to send Sawada a stern look. He met it with a blinding smile and guided you toward the door where you could see the dark town car waiting. Once outside, you tried to politely step away, but Sawada moved with you, using his body to corral you towards the backseat door.

“I really should get to work,” you insisted, trying to catch Nico’s eye over Sawada’s shoulder. The teen’s cranky face was back, and he refused to look at you. Theo looked downright heartbroken, shoulders hunched as he stared at his shoes. “Theo, why don’t you walk me—”

“Gokudera,” Sawada smoothly interrupted, sending a brief glance to the youngest Fratelli brother. Grumpy looked up immediately from opening the car door. “Could you take Theo to the main house? He should be present at the meeting.”

Something silent but intense passed between their locked gazes for a second, then Gokudera was nodding and moving to clap a hand on Theo’s back; the boy’s smile was a bit weak, but no less awed at the friendly contact. You spared another moment to be worried about the blatant hero-worship on the youngest Fratelli’s face, but then Sawada was crowding closer, and you had to either get in the car or be pressed far too closely against his chest.

There was always punching him, but you didn’t particularly feel like dying that morning. Getting away with sassing his men was one thing, but outright assaulting the Don? Yeah, bad idea.

“Yamamoto,” Sawada said, stepping back to let Nico enter the vehicle. “Would you mind tracking this down for me?”

You caught a glimpse of Sawada handing Yamamoto a torn envelope, the Don resting his other hand briefly on the taller man’s shoulder and moving in close to his ear, but then Nico was blocking your view, climbing into the backseat with all the grace his gangly limbs allowed. Which was, all things considered, still rather graceful.

Nico shifted to the far side, his back to the car’s front, and was barely in his seat before Sawada climbed in next to you, and you quickly scooted over to make room for him beside you. Why he chose that seat when there was an open one right across from you, you could only guess. Probably to fuck with you.

You busied yourself with your seatbelt, then locked your gaze out the window to avoid the other men in the car, only to make eye contact with Sawada in the window’s reflection.

Frowning, you turned to look at him directly. Nico cleared his throat. You both ignored him.

“So, breakfast?” Sawada asked, all polite interest, like he hadn’t just invaded your life like some sort of force of nature. Or a viral infection.

“I’ve eaten, thank you.” Your voice held a particularly icy edge.

“Dinner, then?”

“I have plans.” You absolutely had zero plans. “Why were you at my apartment this morning?”

Sawada’s smile was smooth and a perhaps a little mischievous. “Why wouldn’t a man want to spend time with such a lovely woman?”

You narrowed your eyes at him while Nico covered a choking noise with a hasty cough. Sawada looked far too pleased with himself for your liking. “Laying it on a little thick, Sawada?”

The don shrugged, one-shouldered and somehow elegant for such a simple and annoying gesture. “Can hardly blame a man for trying,” he said, flashing you a smile that was a little devilish and entirely unapologetic. It was your only warning. “You are so cute when you blush.”

You carefully arranged your features into the most unimpressed expression you could muster, knowing damn well he was aiming for another flustered response. But this morning’s embarrassment was plenty for you today, thank you very much.

Sawada’s smile edged a smidge wider at your lack of reaction. You stared at him for another breath or two, just to drive your point home, before you decided it was time to stop ignoring Nico and more than passed time to start ignoring a certain insufferable don.

“Not that I don’t enjoy your company,” you said, maybe a bit too sweetly, and turned your gaze pointedly away from Sawada to Nico. “But is there a reason I suddenly have a vehicle escort to work?”

Nico cleared his throat, his expression growing tense, and crossed his arms over his chest. It took him a moment of stiff silence before he managed, “There’ve been some threats.”

You blinked at him. You thought of your vandalized door, Fratelli’s visit to your office last week, and Parker’s general fuckery. “That’s not exactly news to me.”

Nico grimaced and shifted in his seat, glancing out the window with a pained look on his face. His fingers were tight where they rested on his sleeves, scrunching the fabric. Sawada was very quiet now, watching with a face blank enough to be on a doll.

“Okay,” you said slowly, as that sinking dread returned to the pit of your stomach. “ _New_ threats were made.”

The silence in the car was thick, a tangible pressure against your chest. You took a deep breath and tried to think of what you had missed. It couldn’t have been too long ago, or Nico would have pulled this escort maneuver earlier.

You glanced over to Sawada, frowning, as you wondered again why he and his men were at your apartment. Why the Don of such an important family had spent any second of his time loitering  by the mailboxes in your apartment’s depressing lobby—

“The envelope,” you said, remembering Sawada pressing it into Yamamoto’s hand outside the building. Nico didn’t look away from the window, lips pressed into a pale line like he was trying not to be sick. You rounded on Sawada. “You opened my _mail_.”

Sawada had that tiny, amused gleam in his eyes again. He gave no other response to your statement or its accompanied glare.

“That’s a federal offense,” you blurted, like such a thing mattered to men like these. You felt like an idiot the moment the words were out of your mouth.

Sawada’s facade broke with a snort, and he visibly bit back his laugh. After a second or two, he wrangled his expression back under control, dragging one hand down his face while his shoulders briefly trembled, and then his hand dropped and the polite expression was back in place.

You continued to level a stern glower at him.

His lips twitched, and then he reached into his jacket and pulled out the other envelopes you’d seen him holding that morning. You pursed your lips and snatched them up, knowing full well as you did so that he was allowing the rude gesture, and shoved them into your purse to look through later. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of perusing the stack now, especially since at least two envelopes had jagged ends from being torn open.

“That doesn’t explain why you were in my apartment building,” you said, jaw tight.

“I was a bit hasty the other day,” Sawada said. He seemed to consider each word carefully before allowing it to pass his lips, his expression taking on that distant mask once more. “It would seem that I was not as... _clear_ with Fratelli about your misunderstanding as he required.”

You swallowed, watching as Sawada’s gaze traced the movement with no change in expression. Your shoulders were too tense, and it felt like you were breathing through a vice. And you knew Sawada could tell, despite his carefully blank face. It was the polite, empty face you absolutely hated.

“So you stole my mail?” You were aiming for stern, but your tone landed somewhere closer to tired. You took a deep breath as subtly as you could, even though you knew Sawada would notice anyway. You still had your pride, damn it.

“I...had a feeling.” Sawada flashed you one of his bright grins, like it would distract you from the utter bullshit answer he’d just given you.

“That’s—”

“I’ll be by this evening to pick you up,” Nico interrupted you before you could tell the Vongola Don exactly what you thought of his answer. Just as well—you were getting far to comfortable with Sawada for your own piece of mind.

“I mean it,” Nico said. “Do _not_ leave before I get there.”

You automatically opened your mouth to respond to that—Nico knew how much you hated that domineering tone—but you stopped yourself, taking in the tense line of Nico’s shoulders, the white-knuckled grip of his fingers on his sleeves, the hardness around his eyes. Nico’s expression could have been carved in stone, like his typical cranky machismo face had been dropped in an icy river and left there. Now wasn’t the time for this talk.

So, instead, you nodded and sent him a look that told him you _would_ be talking on that ride home. In the meantime, you would try to get through the day with as low a profile as possible—starting with this car ride.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Tsuna 100% thinks NO ONE eats enough, not even himself. Blame Nana.


	11. In which You’re Really Starting to Hate Car Rides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visitation Arc 
> 
> 4 Days Left

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR.
> 
> I'm splitting this into separate 'fics' in a series, 'cause I've got like...seven? nine arcs? It big. And I've decided this as I enter my last semester of uni. 
> 
> Y'know that elmo gif? With the flames in the background? Dat me.

 

 

Your day was freakishly normal after that morning’s fiasco. The only item of note was a call from Marguerite, who had gotten her (passing) exam scores back.

“Nico wants to take me out to celebrate,” she said, voice giddy before she hastily tacked on, “But not this weekend. Next weekend. When everything’s calmed down.”

You paused in the middle of skimming the numbers in front of you (the Gulf firm’s shipping reports from the last year, each month its own neat row of text and numbers; that weird deduction might be a mislabeled maintenance fee, if these records were correct. You hoped they were correct. Better a filing mishap than extorting from a mafia-backed business). You considered Marguerite’s words for a moment. She had been handling the Fratelli’s ‘guests’ quite well, considering their apparent inability to hold to a coherent schedule. Had something new come up?

“Calmed down?” You asked. “Or should I not ask?”

There was a telling pause. “Nico’s just been tense, y’know?”

“He has a lot of responsibility,” you hedged. “And he’s preparing for college on top of that.”

“I know,” Marguerite sighed, sounding a touch forlorn. “But he has me to help him with that. This is...y’know, family stuff.”

You bit back the curse that flew to your lips. Marguerite could mean family or Family — both were possible considering Nico’s previous and somewhat ominous comments about his father lately. It was no secret the don and his heir disagreed on certain matters — many of which involved you to some degree, unfortunately — but you couldn’t help but feel things were coming to a head. Between Parker and the Vongola, there were too many forces at play, all vying in their own ways for attention from the Family.

If Vittoria were in your office, she’d say she had a bad feeling about this. As it was, you could all but hear her voice in the back of your mind. It had about the same effect.

You took a measured breath and marked your spot on the records you’d been looking over. Attention fully on the conversation, you mentally braced yourself and asked, “Do you think he’s okay?”

It was a stupid question. You were going to be seeing Nico in a few hours, and you knew damn well that things were escalating. But Nico had seemed more closed off this morning than usual, stressed and upset and you weren’t sure how to approach him about it without starting an argument.

If a shrug could be audible, you were sure you’d have heard Marguerite’s. You could almost see it, little more than a slight jerk of her shoulder, her eyes down and lip chewed red between her teeth.

“He won’t say,” she answered, and her voice matched the troubled picture in your head. “Just that I should visit Papa this weekend out in the ‘burbs, let Jacob handle the guests ‘til they leave Monday.”

_Fuck_.

You licked your lips and took another, deeper breath, taking the moment to crush the whisper of your conscious: you absolutely should not be taking advantage of Marguerite for information like this, but... Damn it. It was one thing for you to get Vittoria upstate this weekend; it was quite another for Nico to warn his girlfriend away from Fratelli grounds, where she would arguably be the safest — unless Nico knew there was about to be a Family squabble.

In which case… _Double_ fuck.

What the hell was the boy thinking? You wracked your memory, flying through your last few conversations with him and wondering, again, if the Vongola were feeding your boys bad ideas. You didn’t care if they killed you for the attempt, you’d skin those gorgeous men alive if Nico or Theo got hurt because of them.

Marguerite’s voice interrupted your somewhat reckless train of thought, your name almost a plea when said in that tone. There was a quiet pause, and you made a gentle sound of encouragement. And then, small and unsure, “Did I mess it up?”

“No, ‘Rita, of course not,” you answered immediately, keeping your voice soft despite the frantic whirl of your thoughts. “Mr. Fratelli’s guests are...difficult. They’d be a challenge for anyone, especially under these circumstances.”

You heard a tiny rustle, and you imagined Marguerite nodding. Her hair must be down.

There was another pause.

“I promise,” you continued. “You’ve done everything right. There’s just a lot going on right now. Everyone’s on edge.”

“Okay.” Marguerite’s voice was stronger now, but you weren’t satisfied.

“How about this,” you said. “Next Wednesday, Tori and I will take you to _Aguas Azules_ for lunch — a real lunch, just the three of us. No business talk allowed.”

 “Yeah.” Marguerite still didn’t sound as back to normal as you wanted, but she was getting there.

“And hey,” you continued, injecting what cheer you could manage into your words. “Tori’ll have just gotten back from her brother’s. She’ll have all sorts of baby horror stories to tell.”

Marguerite’s laugh was barely more than an exhale, but it was genuine. It would have to do, for now. If she and Nico managed to stick it out past college, she’d get more and more used to burying the worry that was eating her up right now. She’d have to, to be a don’s wife.

“Sounds really nice,” she said.

“Great.” You kept your voice bright, compensating perhaps a bit too much. “See you then?”

“See you then.”

 

[[ _That Evening_ ]]

 

Nico showed up nearly five seconds after your phone pinged with his warning text. You wondered, a bit unkindly, what function the warning even served at that point.

You swallowed your irritation, knowing it was unfair. Despite your best efforts, your anxiety had been feeding on itself all day, your mind circling back to the discussion you had promised Nico this evening. You were trying to calm down, knowing that going into that conversation already upset wasn’t going to help matters, but you were also sick and tired of having your life shoved sideways on the whims of dangerous men and if you had to have one more uncomfortable conversation in the back of one of Fratelli’s town cars you might scream.

Which was a problem, because you _knew_ this evening’s talk with Nico was going to very uncomfortable and, in all likelihood, in the back of one of the Family cars. So, despite your best efforts, today had been rather shit and you were left feeling distinctly cranky and more than a bit twitchy.

Which, you realized when you took in Nico’s appearance, was not unlike how the Fratelli heir looked. It was subtle, his surly facade firmly in place, but his eyes were a bit too quick as they scanned the office and your face, his shoulders just a hair too stiff for the casual slouch he was trying to effect, and his tone, when he grunted out a “you ready?”, was a touch too strained 

You frowned at him. “Just let me finish closing this file, and we can be on our way.”

Nico nodded, the gesture slow and nonchalant but a bit too sharp on the edges to be convincing. He wandered over to the picture on your wall, the one Theo had given you, and you wondered if you should just move it to your apartment. You could hang some tacky motivational poster in its place or maybe a “No Loitering” sign.

You shut down the computer and grabbed your purse, making a bit more noise than strictly necessary while you did so. You didn’t want to sneak up on Nico right now, wound up as he was.

He didn’t look your way when you approached. Instead, eyes firmly tracing the lines of the horizon in the photo, he gestured toward the door for you to go first.

You stepped quietly into the hall and made a beeline for Vittoria’s door. The light was still on and, as you expected by the soft rustling sounds, she was tidying up her desk from the day’s worth of papers, sticky notes, and runaway pens.

“Heading out,” you said.

She spared you an arc look and tapped a stack of papers against her desk to straighten them out.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” You tried again.

The look she sent you then was even more sour than the last. “No,” she finally said. “I’ll be driving out first thing in the morning.” She grimaced. “Loreto was ecstatic.”

You bit back a smile. “It’ll be a nice change of pace.”

She outright glared at you now, and you let a hint of the smile creep through. You heard Nico’s steps, felt the rustle of his arm against yours as he paused in the doorway, and Vittoria’s glare floundered. She hoisted it back up over the worry in her eyes and jabbed an immaculately manicured finger — her nails a pearly white, this time — at you.

“You _will_ be here when I get back on Monday.”

You opened your mouth to promise, knowing full well you both knew there was a distinct possibility you’d be lying, but Nico cut in.

“We’ll keep her in one piece,” he said. And then, before either you or Vittoria could interject, “Bruce is waiting downstairs.”

You blinked at him as he tucked a hand lightly around your elbow, then turned to give Vittoria a hasty farewell before Nico gently ushered you away and down the hall.

It took you a moment before you trusted yourself to speak without snapping at him. Even so, your voice was low, bit out from between clenched teeth, when you asked, “Something wrong?”

“Not at all,” Nico lied. He nodded at Bruce, who stood beside his desk with his arms clasped in front of him, the picture of professional patience as he waited for Vittoria.

You weren’t sure you could manage a civil ‘goodnight,’ so you nodded as well.  Bruce’s responding smile was tight, his nod short and perfunctory, and his gaze never left Nico. You’d swear something passed between them in that look, Bruce’s eyes lit with some question that Nico’s answered.

You felt the hairs on the back of your neck rise.

“Nic—?”

“Get in the car.”

You barely slammed your mouth shut before you said something angry. You were _really_ sick of this, feeling too on edge yourself to be more patient with Nico’s bossy attitude. Somehow, you pursed your lips against the hot words, feeling a muscle jump in your jaw as you ducked into the double-backseat of the car.

Theo was waiting inside, a big grin on his face. As soon as he saw your and Nico’s expressions, though, the smile slid off his lips.

“You guys are fighting, huh?”

You wanted to reassure him, to touch his arm and smile and let him know it was okay, but he was right: you were gearing up to have a hell of an argument with his brother and you knew it.

The best you could offer him was a semi-apologetic look, the expression unfortunately tainted by your irritation. Theo grimaced and tucked himself further into his seat, eyes trained out the window —at your reflections in the window, you realized — as he gave you and his brother just enough space to work it out without letting you off the hook entirely.

He was going to make such a good right-hand.

You tore your eyes away from Theo and waited with what felt like enormous patience as Nico settled himself down in his seat and knocked his knuckles in a light tap-tap against the glass divider. The car immediately set off, sliding away from the curb and into traffic.

“What the fuck was that about?” Your voice was soft, icy, smoothly insinuating itself into the silence of the backseat. Absurdly, you thought Sawada would smile at it. The image made your anger spike, and you tried to shake it off without thinking too hard about where the thought had come from. You could worry about that later, probably in bed tonight because you had the distinct feeling you wouldn’t be sleeping.

“What the fuck was what about?” Nico’s voice was equally soft, but hot with tension. He was all but glaring out the window.

You took a deep breath. “Nico.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Do the thing,” he said.

“What thing?” you said, struggling for calm.

“That thing.”

“Nico, I swear to—”

Theo shifted in his seat, meeting your eyes with his reflection in the window. You clenched your fists and counted a deep breath, then another, and refocused on Nico. “What is going on?”

“We’re escorting you home.”

“You know what I mean.”

Nico narrowed his eyes at you, a sharp little smirk tilting the edges of his lips. “Do I?”

You felt your spine stiffen, tension a hard knot between your shoulder blades. “Okay,” you said in what you felt was a very reasonable tone. “We’ll do it this way.”

Nico had the good grace to wince. You could _feel_ Theo tense up beside him.

“What is Bruce doing for you?”

“Escorting Vittoria home,” Nico said. “Then he’ll follow her car out of the city in the morning to make sure she’s safely on her way.”

“And when he gets back?”

Nico’s shrug was almost as sarcastic as his voice when he answered. “Probably back to guarding the office building. Y’know, like he’s paid to.”

Theo’s soft, “ _Nico_ ,” was almost too quiet to hear.

You bit the inside of your cheek and took another deep breath. “Okay,” you said, and Nico winced again. Theo was watching with a vague expression of horror, but he remained silent.

“Why is ‘Rita leaving Fratelli territory this weekend?” You asked.

There was the soft hiss of Theo’s indrawn breath, and you watched Nico go very, very still. His eyes were hard, angry, when they finally met yours. “Father-daughter bonding,” he all but growled.

“And where does Sawada fit into this?” You kept your voice light, not wanting to escalate the already spiraling conversation. But when Nico opened his mouth, expression already molded into a denial, you cut him off with a firm, “I know he’s involved.”

Nico’s lip curled like he was about to snarl something, but Theo made a soft, protesting noise. Now it was Nico’s turn to take a deep breath, and you swore you could see his lips moving as he counted. “He’s supportive.”

You weren’t sure how to even begin parsing that statement, not when your thoughts felt like so many whirling leaves in your head. “Is this about your ‘decision’?”

Nico didn’t answer, but his lips thinned. Theo was suspiciously still beside him, still watching carefully.

The silence was unbearable, stretching thin and tight and when another question jumped to your lips, you didn’t bite it back.

“Are you going to move against Don Fratelli?”

The question was quick, quiet, unavoidable. Theo didn’t even flinch, which was probably a red flag all its own. Nico was just as steady, and while his eyes were still hard, his anger was tempered by a steely determination that had alarms blaring in your head.

They’d talked about this. The Fratelli boys had sat down, together, and talked about the possibility of overthrowing their father.

“Holy _shit_ ,” you breathed.

Nico looked away, his expression torn between guilt and anger, and Theo’s smile was full of swagger and confidence and only the barest hint of hesitation. The expressions were so unfamiliar on both their faces that you felt almost like you were sitting with strangers.

You were going to _murder_ Sawada for this.

Something must have shown on your face, because Theo suddenly began to sputter and protest. “Wait, it’s not— We’re not— _They_ won’t—”

Nico put a hand on his arm, and Theo quieted with barely a sputter more. His face was red and he looked a touch hurt, but he folded his arms and took a breath that was only a little shaky. You thought you saw his hand move to touch something at his side, but before you could look closer Nico was speaking.

“No,” he said, jaw tense and voice quiet but firm. “We’re not making a move against Dad.” And then, barely audible under his breath, “Probably.”

There was a very quiet moment, and you swore you could hear Theo stifle a snort and nervous giggle.

Was this what having an aneurysm was like? The hot rush of speechlessness? The twitchy need to _react_ humming in your limbs?

“ _Probably?!_ ”

“Well, I mean, if we have to—”

“‘We’ who, Nico?” You snapped. “And think carefully before you try to cover Sawada’s ass—”

Theo was already shaking his head. “No, Gokudera said that never ends well, even for Vongola. Something about an affair and needing a cradle or...I’m not sure, just that it’s almost always a bad idea.”

“So why _probably_?” You knew you shouldn’t raise your voice, but you felt like everything inside of you was moving too quickly, vibrating and hot and you felt almost ill with it.

“Tsuna said it was my choice,” Nico said. “Whatever I decide, it’s _my_ choice.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. You stared at your hands, fisted and trembling in your lap, and fought to still the frenetic shifting in your blood.

“But you haven’t,” you managed to force out. “Decided yet, I mean.”

The car was silent for so long that you thought you wouldn’t get an answer. Then, almost too quiet to hear, Nico said, “No.”

You swallowed thickly and focused on breathing slowly to calm the nausea foaming in your stomach.

It took a second to get your mouth to work properly, and you tried again when you felt like you could speak without choking on your words. “Why? Because of my fuck ups? Because of _Parker_? Nico, splitting the Family will only make it more vulnerable—”

“It won’t come to that,” Nico said.

“You don’t _know_ that,” you whispered. “Do you have any idea what you’d be doing? Really, truly know? Because once that gauntlet is dropped there’s no picking it back up.”

Nico’s face was grim but set, and Theo’s was almost alight as he said, “We’re gonna fix it. Together— like Family.”

“Nico, Theo,” your voice was strained even to your ears. “This is a bad idea.”

“It’ll be okay,” Theo said. “Tsuna has our backs, and Gokudera gave me a vote of confidence.” He winked when he said that last part, and your unease took a nosedive straight into the first trembling wash of real fear.

“What do you—”

But Theo was already waving you off, that confident grin back on his face. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, and the almost patronizing tone of it was so foreign to his voice that you nearly didn't recognize it for what it was.

“It’s not like we’re gonna go to war,” Theo continued.

You thought of the question in Bruce’s eyes, the deadly answer in Nico’s, and you weren’t so sure.

“What do you think happens when you overthrow a don, Theo?” Was that your voice? All wispy and barely there?

Theo’s expression faltered, and you watched concern filter in and widen his eyes. “Hey,” he said, reaching out to brush his fingers against your hands, still tightly clenched in your lap. “It’s not gonna be like that, yeah? Dad’s just gonna retire a little earlier than he thought, that’s all.”

You cursed, softly and still too unsteadily for your own liking. How did he not _understand_? “I don’t think it’s going to be so simple, Theo. Mr. Fratelli isn’t going to just quietly retire, and you still have _school_ —”

“ _If_ we have to,” Nico interjected, “the Vongola will back us up.”

“Absolutely not,” you said, voice gaining strength. “Whatever it is, you can find a compromise. There’s too much at stake.”

“Exactly,” Nico said, eyes gone gimlet again. “We have to rethink everything — our businesses, our infrastructures, our connections, all of it. Together,” he glanced at Theo, sharing something secret in his eyes that you couldn’t interpret, “as a Family. The future of the mafia is changing, and the Fratelli aren’t going to be shut out of it.”

“Changing,” you repeated. You thought of Sawada, of his careful smiles and his perceptive gaze, his cryptic responses to almost every question.

_I don’t think Fratelli is worth it_ , he’d said. _But Nico and Theo… I think_ they _are worth it_.

“Yes,” Nico said, some of the hardness leaching out of his voice. “Starting with a reminder — Family takes care of its own.”

 

 


	12. In which an Argument Grows Out of Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visitation Arc 
> 
> 3 Days Left

 

 

You were right — you didn’t sleep much at all that night. Your mind ran circles around itself, worried about Nico and Theo and whatever stupid ideas Sawada had filled their heads with. The Vongola men held an unhealthy amount of sway over the boys. You couldn’t remember ever seeing either Fratelli son so worshipful of another mafioso, and it made you intensely uncomfortable.

Don Fratelli loved his boys, but you weren’t sure even he would stand for this. He was a very proud man, very steeped in old world tradition, and you couldn’t be entirely sure his paternal affections would trump that.

Was this what the Vongola wanted? You’d thought that Parker might gun for the Fratelli sons as a way to lash out at the Don, but how was that much different from this? From convincing a pair of teenagers that they could overthrow their own father and run a mafia empire all by themselves?

But no, not by themselves — of course not. They’d have Vongola support. And wasn’t that oh-so-convenient? The Vongola Don, so friendly and accommodating, ready to step in and help these young, _inexperienced_ new leaders as they start their reign?

You managed maybe half an hour of restless sleep around 4AM, dreams feverish and incoherent and filled with kings and puppets and chess pieces moving, moving, moving, scraping splinters against the board and closing in ever tighter circles around you.

It was definitely a coffee morning.

You sat at your desk, all but worshiping your takeaway cup of steaming caffeine, and let the grogginess just wash over you. You felt like all the prickly sparks of energy from loose circuitry had taken residence at the base of your skull to shoot electric trembles down your spine to snap and bite at your fingertips and toes. So you sat, quiet, and sipped your coffee, and breathed as the feeling of being hunted settled into a distant, bone-deep exhaustion at the back of your mind, sifting slowly down, down, down like the stirred-up dregs of a sediment-heavy pond.

You watched your computer boot up without really seeing it, focusing instead on the simple drag of air passing through your throat to fill your lungs, the expanding and relaxing in your diaphragm, and the liquid heat of milk and espresso on your tongue. You stayed like that until each inhale felt like _breathing_ and not like the final gasps of the drowning.

And then you set your coffee down and got to work.

Two hours later, your coffee was gone and your brain was faintly buzzing with a mix of fatigue and caffeine, but you were awake and relieved to be sending the Gulf firm a sternly-worded email about properly labeling and archiving their expense records. You felt almost human again.

So, of course, you heard footsteps down the hall.

Something in them made you tense. And for a moment you were confused — Vittoria was out of town and besides, her steps always clacked with her high heels, the pace occasionally skipping as she got distracted by something or other on the way; Nico’s were steady, a rhythmic stride that landed a bit too heavily, as if trying to announce a presence; Theo’s steps were quiet, soft, a little off-rhythm, like he didn’t want to caught being where he shouldn’t; the Vongola men made no sound as they moved, silent as specters in black suits or bad omens.

You blinked at your door, having just enough presence of mind to think maybe you should have gone easy on that caffeine if this was what your brain was producing, and tried to remember if Mr. Fratelli had a distinctive gait. He did — a poor leg, you were told once, from a scuffle when he was young and the Fratelli liked to prove themselves with bullets and blood instead of the brute forces of money and political power.

So you were perhaps a little distracted when two broad men in finely tailored suits entered your office. You recognized them quickly, though — not by name, but by face and reputation — and you couldn’t blame your pulse’s speedy, jumping pace on the coffee.

You stood, a bit tardy, and nodded your head low in greeting.

“Gentlemen.” You forced your voice to be the light, easy tone of polite inquiry. “How may I help you?”

The taller of the two, blonde and with a thin red scar bisecting his right check at an odd angle, nodded his head politely. “Mr. Fratelli would like a word with you,” he said, and you were quite sure it wasn’t healthy for your heart to go from thumping wildly to all but stopping in your chest.

You swallowed and struggled to keep your bland expression in place. “Oh?”

“Privately,” said the second, brunette and bearded with a spiderweb of scars across the knuckles of his neatly-folded hands. “Now.”

You blinked. “Of course,” you heard yourself say. You started to shutdown your computer, though how you did so with no feeling in your fingers was beyond you. “I’ll just grab my bag—”

But before you could reach down for your purse to gather your things, a thick hand was on your elbow, pulling you up and forward. The scars on the bearded man’s knuckles were old, extensive, and thickest at the base of his fingers. There was really only one way someone got scars like that, and it was always brutal, bloody, and drawn-out.

You knew better than to protest his handling.

It wasn’t as though you were surprised. You’d been warned, hadn’t you?

But the knowledge sat cold and comfortless in the pit of your stomach as Don Fratelli’s personal Enforcers escorted you out of the building and into another sleek, black town car.

 

 

 

You don’t quite remember the drive to the main house.

You do, oddly, remember the lilac bushes that lined the front garden, blooming and fragrant in purples and pinks and creams. One looked damaged, the branches sunken in and the grass littered with pale petals. It struck you as strangely apropos. Maybe they’d bury you there, underneath it, in remembrance for your service to the Family.

(They wouldn’t, you knew. That wasn’t protocol and anyway it was unconscionably stupid to leave that kind of damning evidence almost literally on your own doorstep.)

So no lilac burial for you.

The blond Enforcer grabbed you this time, grip toeing the line of bruising as his fingers sunk into the flesh above your elbow, but you couldn’t scrounge up the emotion to care. The bearded man walked ahead to open the door. They’d changed the stained glass inset to something blue and vaguely oceanic, the thick leaden lines curling like waves.

And then you were being swept down a side hall. Two maids were fussing off the kitchen, something about a mess in the dry pantry — spilled bottles? Perhaps the wine cellar then? — but the blonde kept a brisk pace, and your mind skipped to the paintings on the wall, one after another in a series of rapid, disturbingly clear observations.

An impressionist work of a bridge delicately curving over a lily pond.

A watercolor of a lighthouse perched on the shore at a pink-saturated dawn.

An oil painting of thunderous, near-black waves swallowing down a lone ship.

And then a thick, wooden door. Two hard knocks, a muffled voice, and then the bearded man swept in, the blonde following with you in tow.

You heard the door click shut behind you, and you were vaguely aware that you’d been in this parlor before — the massive white marble fireplace was hard to forget — but your attention was focused on Nico.

He stood to the right of his father, half-turned toward the door, a look of faint horror and slowly rising anger suffusing his expression.

Don Fratelli looked like a giant next to him. His face had that cold, assessing look to it again. His hands were casually tucked in his pants pockets, and he stood with the straight-backed confidence that his every order would be obeyed without question.

“Dad, what—”

Fratelli interrupted his son with a wave at his Enforcers. The uncomfortable grip on your elbow immediately eased, and the two broad men left to wait outside the door until called again.

“You know what this is, Nico,” Fratelli said. His voice was calm, easy, like they were talking about dinner plans.

A muscle in Nico’s cheek twitched, his eyes narrowing. “You’re not listening.” He said it like an accusation, like this argument had been going on for a long while now and you were entering just in time to see the traces of it rippling wider and wider in its wake.

“She talked to the cop,” Fratelli said, and you were suddenly thankful to be so numb at the moment because otherwise you would be a panicked mess. “You said so yourself.”

“No,” Nico growled, and his frustration was almost a taste on your tongue, sour and hot and so unlike his usual teenage fits of ire that you weren’t sure what to make of it. “I said a Family member’s being _harassed_ by some rabid flatfoot.”

Fratelli made a dismissive gesture. “She is not Family,” he said.

The words shouldn’t feel like a blow, not after so long. But your fists clenched at your sides, and you struggled to stand still. You didn’t feel numb anymore. You couldn’t call it a positive development.

Nico looked furious. His lip curled, and you tried to send him a chastising look — _Whatever you’re about to say, do not say it to your father_ — but Fratelli was already moving on.

“And she talks to cops,” he said. “She _is talking_ to cops.”

“No, she’s not! This isn’t — it’s _different_.” Nico made a quick gesture towards his own head as if to tap an ear. “You don’t _listen_.”

Fratelli turned that cold look onto Nico. “You’re right: this is different,” he said. He took a step closer, crowding into Nico’s personal space, but the young man didn’t back down, spine straight and eyes almost glittering. “Because you told the Vongola.”

Nico didn’t deny it.

“How hard did I work to secure his invite, hm?” Fratelli pushed closer, almost nose-to-nose to Nico. “They wanted to send a representative, a substitute, but I insisted — do you know what I had to do to make sure the Don came and not some pawn? What I had to promise to earn a visit from the _Decimo_?”

Nico raised his chin a fraction of an inch, baring his teeth in a small flash of white. You tamped down on the urge to step forward, to intervene, to say something and disrupt the blatant challenge Nico was flirting with. This was not about you, not anymore, not after Sawada.

Fratelli met Nico with a full snarl of his own. “And now what do they think of us, Nicolao? That we let rats scamper in our home?” His quick, flicking gesture toward you left little doubt about whom he was referring to with that comment. “That we are ruled by sentiment? That my son, my _heir_ , is so weak as to be led around by a woman?”

“They agree with me.” Nico’s words were soft, but they stopped Fratelli like a brick wall.

There was a long, breathless pause.

“No,” Fratelli said, firm and crackling with anger. “They see an opportunity in you.” Fratelli stepped back, turned to you. “I have had enough,” he said. You weren’t sure if he was speaking to you or Nico.

“Tsuna has already—”

“I said _no_.” Fratelli did not shout, but his voice seemed to echo in the room. “You let her too close, let her have too much power over you, and it is time to be done with it.”

You felt like you were dreaming. Maybe you had fallen asleep at your desk? Because Fratelli’s words were so near a perfect echo of your own worries that for a moment you weren’t sure any of this were real.

Hadn’t you been worried about the same thing just last night? That the Vongola were using Nico and Theo? That they had gotten too close, too powerful over your boys? It was startling to hear that Fratelli considered you a similar kind of threat, to hear your own sleep-deprived anxieties echoed back at you in only a slightly different frame.

“I won’t let you do that,” Nico was saying, tone still holding that soft and devastating authority. You thought of Sawada. “Family protects its own.”

You wanted to say something to that, because you w _eren’t_ Family, not now, and it had never felt more blatant than this moment, this fight, watching like an outsider, an intruder. You had no place here. You were barely more than an excuse. Your mouth remained stubbornly immobile.

“You have no say in this anymore,” Fratelli answered, unaffected.

“I swear to you, Dad,” Nico said, “if you make a move against Family, I will take over, and I will have the power of the Vongola Famiglia at my back.”

You hissed in a breath. You felt wide awake all at once, plunged into something cold and wet and left gasping. Your gaze darted to Fratelli. He didn’t react at first. He seemed turned to stone, frozen and unmoving.

Then he breathed, one long, full breath that expanded in his chest, and his voice was a distant, icy thing. “This is my son? This foolish, gullible _boy_?”

Nico didn’t move. He met his father’s stare evenly. “Family protects its own.”

“Am I not Family?” Now Fratelli was nearly shouting, his face reddening as his rage swelled. “You would protect a _whore rat_ over your own father? I might expect this from your brother, but not from you, Nicolao.”

A protest was already out of your mouth, your anger spiked more by the insult to Theo than the one to yourself. You’d been called worse, in the wake of Dominic’s arrest, and you knew — you _knew —_ Fratelli loved Theo, and he was harder on the boy than you thought right but it was never your place to _say_ — but now? For Fratelli to imply that he thought Theo, of all people, was disloyal to his Family? You weren’t going to let it pass unchallenged.

But there were voices rising in the hall and Nico was speaking and your words were drowned out.

“Theo’s not involved,” Nico said quickly — too quickly to be convincing.

“Don’t _lie_ to me,” Fratelli countered, ignoring your outburst entirely and lunging to crowd Nico again. His voice was a low roar, angry and injured and rising with every word. “You would throw away your future, your education, your _family_ , for some pretty words from a _meticcio nip_ , but don’t you dare lie to my face like your _bastardo_ brother!”

You felt your jaw drop in the sudden, booming silence. Outrage skimmed through you in shooting little starbursts until you were taking a step forward, and then another, an angry “ _Mr._ Fratelli—!” snapping from your lips, and you didn’t know what you were going to do when you reached him, just that you were furious, and then that vice grip was crushing your elbow again.

The bearded man jerked you back, and it didn’t occur to you _not_ to use that momentum to twist out of his grasp and knee him in the groin. He went down with a surprised grunt, falling to one knee and clutching his crotch while the blonde moved to grab you from behind. You were too surprised to react properly, brain still feeling thick and _angry_ , and you could only blink down at the bearded man as he sucked in long breaths.

A throat cleared.

It was not the quiet, discreet sound of someone trying not to cough. It was the distinct, ominous noise of someone demanding the room's attention. You knew who it was before you turned, before you felt the heat of a body insinuate itself between you and the blonde Enforcer.

Self-consciously straightening your shirt, you shifted to the side so you faced the door, Yamamoto’s tall frame now standing solid and warm to your left, and nodded your head as respectfully as you could manage under the circumstances. “Sawada.”

Theo was with them, standing back by Gokudera at the doorway, and you felt your chest seize at the quiet, hurt look on his face. But Theo swallowed it down, lips thin but not trembling, when his eyes found Nico’s.

You shifted your gaze, knowing that what passed between the brothers was old and private, built from years of relying on each other and few others. Instead, you took in the unrestrained rage on Gokudera’s face.

It was almost frightening, the way his entire expression was tight and locked in a half-snarl, but Sawada’s was worse. His smile was thin, like a blade, with a hint of teeth that reminded you of a feral cat — that flash of fang before the bright pain of the bite — and his eyes seemed lit from the inside. It was not the probing, glinting stare nor the warm, banked heat you’d seen before, but the amber-gold sparks of an electrical fire, glittering and angry.

You swallowed and looked away, some animal instinct in your brain screeching to flee, hide, survive.

Instead, you stepped away from the bearded Enforcer as he stiffly, painfully, rose to his feet. You also put some space between you and Yamamoto’s broad back, just out of self-preservation. He had stepped _very_ close to you, as it turned out. Vittoria would never let you hear the end of it.

“We seem to be interrupting,” Sawada said.

You shivered at his tone, something silken and deadly and terrifying lurking within it.

“Tsuna—” Nico began, only to be interrupted by his father.

“Forgive me, Don Sawada,” Fratelli said, voice oozing with hospitable charm. “If I had known you would be joining us—” he sent a dark look toward Theo, “—I would have postponed this matter.”

“No need,” Sawada said, gesturing for them to continue. The casual movement jarred with the bright threat in his eyes. “Don’t let us stop you.”

Fratelli ground his teeth. “I’m afraid this is between my son and myself.”

“Is it now?” Sawada said. “I thought I heard you mention me.”

You stiffened and watched Fratelli’s face shift through emotions as he realized Sawada was calling him on his slur.

“A misunderstanding, I’m sure,” Fratelli said eventually.

Gokudera muttered something sharp and vitriolic in Japanese. He then, you could only presume, proceeded to repeat himself louder and in Italian. Even with your rusty skills, you recognized enough to feel a thread of second-hand discomfort.

Nico hissed in a breath, but Theo just looked amazed. Fratelli was turning redder, his eyes narrowing, and it looked like it took effort for him to push out his next words: “I apologize for any insult.”

“That’s a start, I suppose,” Sawada drawled.

Yamamoto chuckled softly, shifting so he could watch both the Enforcers now that the bearded man was a bit steadier on his feet.

Fratelli’s smile was icicle thin. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Now, if you will excuse us?”

Sawada ignored him, ambling further into the room to sit at the chair furthest from the door and collapsing into his feline-lounge. He had a view of the entire room, now, and Gokudera followed silently, glare never wavering from Fratelli, to stand at his boss’s right.

Nico and his father were now uncomfortably surrounded by the Vongola.

“Please, rest here,” Fratelli all but barked. “My _son_ and I will continue our discussion and return to you shortly.”

Fratelli grabbed Nico’s shoulder and pushed him ahead, gesturing at the Enforcers as he did so. The bearded one went to the door, and the blonde moved to go around Yamamoto, eyes on you.

Yamamoto moved with him.

Everyone but the Vongola froze. An uncomfortable moment passed, then another.

Finally, Sawada spoke up. “Oh, I wanted a word with your secretary.”

“I’m not his secretary.” You bit your lip, hating that Sawada could make you just _talk_ like that.

Fratelli seemed to content to ignore you today, though. “I have _business_ with her.”

“Hmm,” Sawada’s smirk was not kind. “I thought you were talking privately with your son?”

A vein in Fratelli’s temple was pulsing. “Yes,” he said. “But I need to settle an old account with her.” His smile was strained. “Upriver shipping, you see.”

Nico and Theo both spoke at the same time, a rush of words and emotions that tangled in each other until Sawada interrupted with a simple, cheerful, “No.”

There was another uncomfortable, quiet moment. Sawada waited until the strain of the silence was stretched to a tearing point, a placid smile on his face.

“You should have that chat with Nico,” Sawada continued. “We’ll keep her company until you return.”

Fratelli was breathing hard now, and you were glad he wasn’t still holding Nico because his fists were clenched tight enough to turn his knuckles white. “How kind of you,” he finally managed. Then, sharply, “Nicolao.”

Nico followed the bearded Enforcer into the hall, but when Theo moved to follow, Fratelli pushed him back with a tight grip on his shoulder. “ _You_ ,” he said, “stay with your _new friends_.”

Theo opened his mouth, but Nico caught his gaze and something in the look made him clamp it shut again immediately. His nod was stiff, his shoulders a little hunched, and he stepped away from Fratelli like the touch burned.

“Theo,” Sawada said, and his voice had lost that cruel edge. “I wanted your opinion on something.”

Theo’s expression brightened just a touch, and he turned away from the retreating backs of his father and brother to focus on Sawada. The blonde Enforcer closed the door behind him.

You took a deep breath, feeling like you’d escaped one lion’s den for another’s, and turned to face Sawada, too. You gave Theo a discreet, soft squeeze of his hand as he passed you to sit on the loveseat canted toward Sawada’s chair. He flashed you an unsteady smile, and well, it was better than nothing.

Yamamoto was smiling at you again when you glanced at him. It wasn’t exactly surprising, but you still narrowed your eyes, something pert and snarky on the tip of your tongue.

Instead, you sighed, glancing at the door where Fratelli and his enforcers had left. You straightened your shoulders, met Yamamoto’s gaze head-on, and said in clearly enunciated syllables, “Thank you.”

Yamamoto beamed at you. It might have been confirmation bias, but you could swear his answering “You’re welcome” was less thickly accented than before. You flashed him a brief, knowing look but otherwise ignored it, nodding your head in acknowledgment and turning to where Theo talked quietly with Sawada and, to your surprise, Gokudera.

But yes, that was Grumpy adding to the conversation — full sentences, too, it seemed — and Theo looked markedly happier. You stifled your relief. Theo always bounced back quickly, you reminded yourself, and if he’d seemed down lately, well, it had been a stressful week.

You stepped forward to take a seat, and Yamamoto followed, strolling lazily to stand near the fireplace and, you were sure, pretend not to be listening.

There was a knock on the door.

You almost groaned “what _now_?” but instead pasted on a polite expression, stood back up, and went to answer the door.

It opened before you drew close, and then there was a gun in your face.

 


	13. In which Things Get Worse Before They Get Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visitation Arc 
> 
> 3 Days Left

 

Parker was wearing his manic grin, the one that made you feel like you were watching a bad superhero movie. There were bags under his eyes, and he held his neck stiffly, like it ached. He smelled vile, something astringent and ammonia-like. His clothes were dark and rumpled, the perfect press of his crisp button-up wrinkled and damp in strange places.

Had he slept in them? Why? Your eye, absurdly, caught on a few delicate drops of color, pale thin ovals sticking to a damp seam on his shirt.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he said. “Do me a favor and back up a bit, wouldja?”

You swallowed and stepped back carefully. You heard the couch be shoved back in a deep scrape of heavy wood, and then Theo was beside you, his hand lightly brushing against yours but not trying to grasp it.

“Ah, ah,” Parker said, closing the door behind him and moving to stand near the fireplace. Yamamoto had stepped back toward Sawada, who was also standing — or attempting to, but Gokudera was all but standing on top of him to stay between him and Parker.

“These the ‘special guests’?” He taunted, grinning at Yamamoto. “Big-time mob men? Thought they were in the east wing.” He shrugged, still grinning, as if to say _oh well_.  

You weren’t sure where Parker dug up the balls for this insanity, but he really should have left them buried. He didn’t seem to understand that he had just pulled a gun on the deadliest men in the mafia. You realized, with a flash of irritation, that Parker really had no clue who the hell Fratelli’s guests were.

And then Yamamoto smiled back, and you felt every nerve in your body freeze. It was not a nice smile.

Parker suddenly looked a bit hesitant, as though he’d just realized what absolute shit timing he had. He glanced at you, then to Sawada, still shielded by Gokudera, as if trying to piece together the puzzle of it. But he visibly shrugged it off and focused his attention back on Yamamoto.

Just in time, too. Yamamoto didn’t seem to have moved a muscle, his eerie smile still firmly in place, but even you could see that he had somehow slid closer to Parker. Dangerously close.

The officer narrowed his eyes on Yamamoto, who seemed completely unfazed by the glare, and jerked his head to Sawada. “Back to your master, dog.”

Yamamoto stiffened, and his smile took on a sharper edge that made it hard to look at and breathe at the same time. But you couldn’t look away, finding sudden empathy with road-crossing deer, and through the oppressive aura coming off the man all your brain could supply was _I fucking knew it._

“Takeshi.” Sawada’s voice was incredibly soft but entirely iron beneath.

Yamamoto’s reaction was immediate, relaxing his shoulders a fraction and stepping slowly, carefully back toward his boss.

You swallowed, using the moment to angle a bit more in front of Theo. Not much, just a touch. Every inch would count if it came down to it.

Parker glanced back and smirked at you; apparently you weren’t being as subtle as you’d hoped. You gave him a bland look in return. He shifted so his gun was pointed right at Theo, apparently confident that Yamamoto was properly quelled, then pointedly turned his gaze on you, as if waiting for your response. The prick was angling to get a rise out of you and _fuck_ were you tired of manipulative assholes.

Parker called your name, his tone light and friendly like he was calling for a pet and you wanted to punch him immediately. “It’s not too late—”

“ _Officer_ Parker,” you broke in, keeping your voice as chilly as you could manage. “I think I recall asking you to _never speak to me again_.” You weren’t supposed to provoke your captors; it was hostage situation 101. You flipped him off anyway. “That request stands.”

Parker’s face darkened, and he shot a glare at Gokudera when the man snorted. You couldn’t see Grumpy’s face, but you could imagine the sardonic expression on it. You must have been right, because Parker’s own expression turned extra pissy.

You shifted just a _bit_ further in front of Theo while the cop was distracted. From the small, indignant huff you caught behind you, you knew the boy had finally caught on to what you were doing.

Well, too bad. He was more valuable than you, so he could just _suck it up_.

Parker was nearly snarling at Grumpy now. “You think this is funny? You think I can’t take you down with Fratelli?” He flipped his attention to you and all but spat the words, “These men are _criminals_ and they’re turning you into one of them. Why won’t you let me protect you from them?”

“Funnily enough, I think they’ve been protecting me from _you_.”

Something in Parker’s face shifted, twisted, and for a moment you thought he was about to pull the trigger. You tensed, heart pounding, not at all confident you could block Theo in time.

“I’m going to _butcher_ Don Fratelli,” Parker growled out. “I will tear this place down and I will leave you to burn in it, civilian or not.”

“Ah,” you forced a smile onto your mouth. It felt wrong, all hard and frightened. How did Yamamoto do it? “But I’m not a civilian.”

“Apparently not,” Parker snapped, his gaze flickering wildly to the other men in the room before returning to glare at you like you’d personally betrayed him. “I _saved_ you — you weren’t supposed to choose them.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, unable to tamp down on your outrage. “I’m sorry, you were you stalking me for _how long_? Not very good _detective_ work if you couldn’t figure that one out on your own.”

Parker flushed and opened his mouth again, but then he snapped it shut and smiled, sharp and humorless and you felt chilled. It took every ounce of your willpower not to shiver. “You know what? I’d planned to set up this whole scene for the force to find—Fratelli and his boys decorating the den like the fucking floor rugs they are, but I think I’m gonna do something better. _Just for you_.”

You felt everything slow for a second, nearly taking a step back. But Parker was moving shifting the gun’s trajectory to you and for a fraction of a second, his aim was just a hair between your and Theo’s heads.

Yamamoto’ form seemed to almost flicker, there and gone and there again only _closer_ and Parker’s gun went off at an odd angle even as his nose exploded with blood from a blow you never even saw. You sensed more than heard Theo moving behind you as you stepped fully in front of him, just barely seeing Sawada and Gokudera moving from the corner of your eye.

Parker got another shot off, then two. The loud reports echoed painfully around the room. One went wild like the first one, but instead of plowing into the window frame it _thunked_ into the wall a scant foot from Sawada’s head, and whatever those two might have been planning was dropped immediately as Gokudera cursed viciously in at least three languages and firmly planted himself right back in front of his boss.

The other shot you didn’t see land, but Yamamoto was suddenly bleeding. Just a trickle down his left forearm where he must have been nicked. For a second, you could only wonder at how _fast_ he must be to only get a graze at point-blank range and then you were pushed to the side as Theo raised a Beretta and where the _fuck had he gotten a gun?_

He aimed, his stance steady, his grip firm, and then….nothing.

You watched in what felt like slow motion as Theo hesitated, his face a portrait of conflict, his eyes darting to the blood dripping down Parker’s face to the gun in his own hands and back again as he continued to _not shoot_.

He wasn’t going to. The knowledge was distant and strange under the tremulous rise of panic. Whatever horrible rite of passage Nico had passed to earn the privilege of using a weapon, Theo sure as hell hadn’t been given it because there was no way Fratelli would let his youngest son carry a gun. And yet there it was, a blocky, horrible shape in Theo’s hands.

Parker choked back blood, pivoting to focus his aim on Theo with an angry, nasal gurgle. Yamamoto immediately stepped back from what was clearly meant to be a second strike, his eyes watching Theo more than Parker now. The agitated teen was arguably as high a threat as the crazy cop at this point.

Gokudera was cursing again, vicious and angry and with Theo’s name appearing at least twice, and you spared him a half-second glare, swearing that if he’d given the boy a fucking firearm you were going to string his ass up, frightening temper or no. Somewhere along the way, Sawada had managed to escape Gokudera’s protective blockade, though the right-hand was still standing very close.

 “What’re you gonna do, little man?” Parker’s voice was thick and wet, drawing everyone’s attention back to him. He took an aggressive step forward, eyes too bright on Theo.

Theo automatically took a step back, and shame added its tint to his twisting expression.

“You gonna shoot me?” the cop taunted. “Then do it. Or when I’m done here, I’ma go find that idiot brother of yours. D’you think if I gave _him_ a gun, he’d actually be a man and use it?”

“Theo,” Sawada said, voice impossibly calm. “Give me the gun.”

“Ah, ah, ah!” Parker tsked, flicking the gun to point your direction in one quick, smooth movement.

You felt Theo freeze next to you, and then he was angling his head to look at you. His eyes were wide, almost wild, as his gaze darted from you to Parker, to Sawada, back to you. Over and over. The gun was starting to shake in his hand. Sawada didn’t make a noise, going unnaturally still in the corner of your eye.

“If there’s anything anyone knows about the Fratelli brats,” Parker’s lip curled as he dragged out the syllables of the name, voice going sing-song as he continued, “it’s that they’re teacher’s pets. _Especially_ ”—Parker flicked his gaze to Theo for a split second—“ _the spare_.”

You felt your jaw clench at the jibe, watching Theo carefully as he gulped, face rife with anger and embarrassment and still that terrible fear. He started to shake again, a fine tremor most visible where he held the gun. His elbow was locked too tight.

 “And aren’t we so lucky?” Parker looked to Sawada, gun still pointed at you. “Looks like you might be worth more than I thought.” Parker’s face was twisted beneath the blood and his newly crooked nose. “If I’d known, I’d have brought more friends with me. But guess what? I’ve got a _fantastic_ idea.”

Parker grinned, broad and uneven, and you couldn’t help but swallow thickly at the spike of unease it brought. You’d take Yamamoto’s too-sharp-smile over this one any day.

“Hey, Spare,” the cop said, still looking at Sawada. “Shoot _him_ , and I’ll let her leave the room alive.”

Theo went still again, even the trembling in his hands ceasing a moment. His eyes shot to Sawada, as if already asking forgiveness. The don was entirely placid, like he was at a tea party instead of a goddamn armed standoff.

“C’mon, little man,” Parker taunted. “You’re gonna grow up to be a big bad killer aren’tcha? Just shoot the man — nothin’ to it, I _promise_.”

Theo glanced back at Parker, but his attention was drawn back to Sawada like a lodestone. The teen’s breathing was growing harsh, and the trembling in his hands worsened. Both Yamamoto and Gokudera were poised, angled just right to intervene should the boy actually take a pot shot at their boss. The former was shifted as you had been earlier near Theo, ready to get in the way of the bullet itself, but Yamamoto was clearly geared to lunge straight at the young man beside you.

Oh, _hell no_. You weren’t about to let the Vongola hurt Theo, and you sure as hell weren’t going to let some psychopath kill _you_. Nope, they’d better find Option C because no matter how much you were starting to like Yamamoto, you _would_ kill him if he hurt the youngest Fratelli boy.

“He won’t do it, Theo,” you said quietly, eyeing Yamamoto in warning. If the man saw it, he didn’t acknowledge it. “It’s a game. He’ll still kill me.”

“Does it have to be fatal?” Sawada suddenly asked, still in that too-calm tone. “Or can he shoot me in the foot?”

Parker shifted his stance to respond to Sawada’s question, his lips twisting into something sarcastic as he opened his mouth to answer, but he kept the gun on you; you were clearly an effective hostage. Except…now he wasn’t even directly facing you, canting away at a slight angle, and at least you didn’t have to worry about him getting a shot off at one of the others. So you decided on the most practical option available given the circumstances: you took Theo’s gun.

Theo didn’t have a good grip on the weapon, his fingers trembling and his eyes on Sawada, and you were still standing close enough to him that the cop didn’t notice immediately what was happening. He saw you move — he must have — and turned with that sneer still lifting his lip.

But now you had the gun. You shifted your stance just as Nico had taught you months ago, supported your grip with your off-hand, and took a precious second to aim, doing your best to ignore the other barrel pointed back at you.

The gun went off, a deafening crack that reeked of gunpowder and something sulfuric. There was a spray of wet and red, a sickly _spattering_ sound that seemed to stick in your brain as readily as it smeared the wall.

For one long, horrible moment, no one moved.

And then Parker went down, half his face a concave wash of blood and cranial debris, and you carefully set the firearm on the coffee table, the barrel pointed at the fireplace where — now, at least — no one stood, before rounding on Theo, pointedly putting yourself between him and the Vongola men.

Theo gulped audibly, his eyes wide and vague as he stared at what used to be Officer Nathaniel Parker. His hands were trembling badly, one still raised as though he hadn’t yet noticed the gun was gone now.

“Theo?” you kept your voice soft, but Theo didn’t acknowledge you at all. He was staring at the mess Parker was steadily spreading on the floor.

“ _Teodoro Markus Fratelli_ ,” you snapped. He jerked to attention, gaze focusing just a fraction more as they flitted to look just past you, dragged from the fresh corpse cooling on the rug.

“What is the first rule of handling a firearm?” You were almost shouting at him. You would feel bad about that later, but for now…. For now Theo blinked, and he took what might have been his first real breath since he’d pulled out the Beretta.

“Treat every gun as if it were loaded,” he answered. He sounded distant, robotic, as if he were repeating something he’d memorized a long time ago.

“The second rule?” Your voice was a whipcrack, sharp and unavoidable, demanding his full attention.

Theo blinked again, and his next breath was deeper despite the hitch in it. “Never point a gun at…” But his voice was shaking, and he had to stop for a moment; his next attempt at a calming breath rattled through his torso like he was only so much loose paper in a windstorm.

“ _What is the second rule, Theo_?”

He opened his mouth but couldn’t seem to form the words he needed. His eyes were watering, and his hands were shaking again. He looked tiny and frail and _fifteen_.

You grabbed his shoulder and gave him a small but rough shake. “Never, _ever_ point a gun at someone you do not intend to fucking _shoot_.”

Theo gulped, and he was starting to gasp for air, his breathing shallow and quick. But he met your eyes, finally looking at you and not the middle distance past your head, and he nodded.

You nodded as well, encouraging him to keep responding. “Okay?”

Theo stuttered out a small, broken “O-ok…k-kay” before you were pulling him to you, holding him tightly as his shoulders began to shudder and those gasps shifted fully into sobs.

You kept your back to the Vongola men, hiding Theo as best you could against your shoulder. He was young, and the mafia had foolish ideas about men’s tears. If Theo needed a shield, then you’d gladly step in front him again.

“He was gonna kill Dad.”

The words were garbled and quiet, almost entirely lost to Theo’s sniffling hiccups. But they were too near your ear to miss, and you’d known this boy for years now.

“I know,” you whispered back, running your hand between his shoulder blades.

“He was gonna kill _Nico_ …kill _you_.”

You shushed him gently, murmuring small reassurances in his ear, most of them flat out lies like “it’s okay now” and “everything’s gonna be all right.” But they were exactly the lies he needed to hear right now, and you’d never considered yourself a very good person.

You could hear people moving around behind you. One of the men — Gokudera, from the voice — must have called someone, because his tone was pitched low and gruff as he growled out one-sided orders and demands while another — probably Yamamoto — was shifting something near the body where it lay off to the side. But you didn’t hear Sawada until he was right beside you.

Your knee-jerk reaction was to shift further away, to shield Theo from this potential threat. Your mind too easily recalled Yamamoto’s determined face, his aggressive stance as he readied himself to hurt the boy currently breaking apart in your arms. But Sawada shifted too, moving to rest a hand on Theo’s shoulder before you could fully register what he was doing.

“You did nothing wrong.” His voice was quiet, kind. “Too much was asked of you, and for that, I am sorry.” Theo couldn’t see Sawada’s face, but you could and _holy hell_ how could a man like him look so soft and understanding?

Sawada’s hand tensed slightly as he gave Theo’s shoulder a soft squeeze. “But you protected your Family.”

His eyes flicked to yours, and you forced your expression to stay neutral, your breathing even. You almost stopped rubbing Theo’s back, but the boy was still trembling in your arms, sniffling hard and gasping those quick, desperate breaths as he struggled to compose himself.

“Remember that,” Sawada said, and you couldn’t tell who he was talking to anymore. “When the memory comes too close, I want you to remember that. You protected your Family.”

 

[ _Two Hours Later_ ]

 

You stared at your desk like it was an alien warp-ship that had just materialized in your office.

You were supposed to be gathering your things, an escort home already established. You’d tried to decline, but between Sawada’s strange way of getting what he wanted and your own unbearable exhaustion, you hadn’t been able to scrounge up much of a fight.

You could dimly hear Sawada conversing with Don Fratelli down the hall. Nico was with Theo, who had quieted down before his father and brother returned in a rush, guns drawn and matching expressions of fury. Theo’s breathing had still been uneven, eyes damp but not too red, and his shoulders had only trembled now and again. It was enough for Fratelli to let it pass, his hand firm but not hard on Theo’s shoulder as he checked him for injuries, his anger temporarily swallowed up by other emotions. Nico, however, refused to leave his brother’s side, a mess of anger and worry and jittery relief.

Sawada encouraged the brothers to stay together, insisting that the Vongola could settle matters from there. But after the boys were safely ensconced in their own rooms, Don Fratelli had insisted on tagging along to further ‘discuss the situation.’ You hadn’t liked the way he’d looked at you when he said that, but you were too damn tired to care overly much at the time.

You’d deal with it tomorrow.

But that still left you here, standing in front of your desk like a moron.

“Hello?”

You jumped at Yamamoto’s quiet voice, and when you turned, his smile was apologetic. He lifted his hands as if to show you they were empty, and you just blinked up at him. A more rational part of your brain recognized the déjà vu of the situation, but it was just as tired as the rest of you and quieted down again quickly.

“…can I help you?” Your voice was distant, barely more than a whisper, and you wanted to smack yourself for the words the second they left your mouth.

Yamamoto quirked his head to the side and nodded at your grip on the desk. When had you grabbed it? “Okay?” he asked.

You stared at your hand and carefully unclenched your fingers from the wooden edge, flexing them to restore circulation faster and then just…staring at them. _Like a moron_.

Yamamoto’s hand met your shoulder, and he squeezed ever so gently. His forearm was wrapped in clean white bandages, the sleeve ripped up the side from Gokudera’s less-than-tender ministrations. Grumpy had refused to let anyone else take care of it.

You tore your gaze from his arm to his eyes.

“Okay?” he asked again, so quiet, and his smile was barely there, just the tiniest of curves while his eyebrows met in a concerned crease on his forehead and suddenly all you could think of was half of a face as the body toppled down and _no, you were not okay_.

You knew you were shaking when Yamamoto gently tucked you against his chest; the contrast of your trembling with his steadiness was hard to miss. Was this how Theo felt, when you had held him tight? Unhinged with the only certain thing a pair of arms around him?

You struggled to take a deep breath, acutely aware that your breathing was uneven and fast. Yamamoto wrapped his arms tighter around you and the _warmth_ of him quickly became too much. To your complete and utter embarrassment, you burst into tears.

If he thought it was silly, Yamamoto didn’t act like it. He rocked you back and forth, one hand petting your head and the other a firm weight between your shoulder blades. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move beyond that. He was simply _there_ and solid and it felt like the entirety of the night, of the past hellish week, was crashing down on you all at once and Yamamoto just held you and let you cry it out.

He said something at some point, a murmur of Japanese, and while you didn’t recognize any of the words, the way he carefully rested his head on yours told you it was probably something meant to comfort.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that. Hopefully not too long, or the others would grow curious and come to check on you. And if you were embarrassed by your tears before, you would be doubly so with such a larger audience to them.

Forcing your breaths to be as deep and slow as you could manage, you counted out each inhale and exhale until they were mostly steady and your eyes were behaving a little less like fountains. A few moments more, and you eased back from Yamamoto.

He immediately slackened his hold, letting you step away with only a steadying hand remaining on your arm. After a second, while you took another carefully counted breath, he let his hand slip away.

You appreciated his easy removal of comfort almost as much as the comfort itself. You offered him a smile — perhaps a bit wobblier than you’d have liked — and he returned it readily.

Suddenly acutely aware of how much time you were taking, you grabbed tissues from the box at your desk and did your best at a quick clean-up. Then you gathered a few of the things  left behind in your hasty and unexpected trip to the main house and dumped them into your waiting purse. You paused just a moment more, just one deep breath more, before turning and nodding to Yamamoto.

He stepped back to the door, letting you take the lead before falling into step at your back, careful not to touch you, not to crowd you; he was a warmth just out of reach behind your shoulder. He didn’t say anything when you came upon Sawada and Gokudera, but from Sawada’s sudden fretful frown you knew he didn’t have to.

Well, so much for keeping your dignity intact. You raised your chin a fraction, daring Sawada to _say a damn word_ , but he just glanced at Yamamoto behind you before meeting your gaze head-on. He gestured down the hall. “The car is waiting,” he said. “I decided not to keep Fratelli any later and sent him home.”

You tried to ignore his phrasing—like Fratelli were his personal assistant and not a mafia don in his own right—and how easily and _discreetly_ Sawada wore his power. The man was recognizably dangerous, yes, but he was also so quiet and inviting that it was sometimes simple to overlook those cues.

You followed them downstairs, Gokudera taking the lead and Yamamoto remaining a reassuring presence behind you. “Should I worry?” you asked as they led you to the sleek black car idling out front. You wondered if you should be more specific, but Sawada seemed to know what you meant anyway.

“No,” he said, voice firm. He left it at that.

The sun was hidden behind the city’s skyline, and evening traffic was in full swing. Nonetheless, the three men ushered you into the large backseat, Gokudera settling on your left and Yamamoto in front of you, Sawada just to his right. With all of you in the car, your options were to stare straight ahead at Yamamoto’s smiling face or out the window at the dusky urban view.

You chose the window.

But it wasn’t fifteen minutes into your reverie before Yamamoto lightly nudged the toe of your shoe with his foot. You met his gaze, his softer-than-usual smile. It looked more like the kind smiles Sawada favored than the dazzling grins you’d become used to from him. You wondered if Yamamoto knew how much he communicated via smiling, or if it was simply part of his language barrier game that left him little recourse.

“Are you doing all right?” Sawada asked, dragging you from your contemplation of his companion.

Sawada wasn’t smiling. His brow was still slightly pinched from his frown, the concerned look unfaded, and his lips were turned in a delicate downward slope. You appreciated that his first question was for your mental wellbeing and not something along the lines of ‘so where’d you learn to shoot like that?’

You shrugged and proceeded to avoid the question anyway. “I’m…very good at compartmentalizing.” Your voice was quieter than you intended, so you cleared your throat, ignoring Sawada’s knowing look—he knew you were avoiding the question.

“For example,” you continued anyway, “today I blew a man’s brains out. And while that information is alarming, yes, for now it’s tucked safely in its little box in the back of my head, where I will deal with it later. When it’s less…” you struggled for the word you wanted before giving up and settling on “inconvenient.”

“Perhaps not the healthiest coping mechanism,” Sawada murmured, but his frown had eased and his rueful smile gave you the impression that he’d seen and heard of far worse.

“But useful,” you interjected, wondering if your sudden talkativeness were the other side of the shock-and-exhaustion coin. “I mean, at least I don’t turn into a hysterical mess until _afterwards_.”

 “Okay,” Sawada said quietly. “And you’ll be turning into a hysterical mess when?”

Your laugh was shakier than you’d have liked, and you tried to adopt a flippant tone to compensate. “Oh, it’s already happened. But it’ll probably crash down again around the time my giant of a cat tries to hog the bed. Just the...” you gestured vaguely, “…the normalcy of it, y’know? The...relief.” You huffed out another humorless laugh, surrendering to the fact that your brain was pretty much useless right now.

“Would you like one of us to stay with you?”

You stiffened, and it took you a few seconds to force your spine to _chill the fuck out_. But the reaction wasn’t missed — of _course_ not, these men were professionals — and Sawada was already smiling gently, hands raised as though in surrender before you could scramble out a polite response.

“Forgive me,” he was saying, casting a glance at Yamamoto. “Now _I’m_ being the forward one.” He hesitated for the space of a breath. “But if you need anything, I want for you to call me or Yamamoto. Nico and his family are…preoccupied at the moment” — dealing with a distraught teenager and quietly making a body disappear, as literally everyone in the car knew, but you weren’t sure if Sawada’s discretion was for your sake or just habit — “and I would feel better knowing you weren’t entirely alone.”

You nodded, if only to make him drop the subject already, and you handed over your cell when Yamamoto held out his hand for it. He was grinning just a tad _too_ widely when he returned it, and you couldn’t help but narrow your eyes suspiciously at him.

You checked your phone because you still adamantly _did not trust_ that smile, and flipped the sorting options to “recent.” The three newest contacts — he’d put them on speed-dial, too, who even _uses_ speed-dial anymore? — were “Tall/Dark/Handsome,” “Boss Man,” and “Grumpy.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. Yamamoto laughed.

 


	14. In which You’re Given an Offer You Can* Refuse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Terms and Conditions May Apply
> 
> Visitation Arc 
> 
> 2 Days Left

 

 

You slept in far later than you’d intended.

Zeus was a comforting weight on your feet, and for a solid half hour you just lay semi-curled on your side and watched the diluted sunlight filter through your blinds. The birds outside were becoming loud, likely riled by an errant squirrel, and Zeus rose with a stretch and yawn. In the casual strut only a cat could muster, he wandered to the edge of the bed and hopped off, strolling into the living room. You were certain that if you followed, you’d find him on his window shelf, fluffy tail swinging. The mid-morning program had begun.

You should get out of bed. You knew you should — what good would it do to stay? You couldn’t hide away beneath the blankets and never come out. Tempting as it was, nothing would ever get done then. And you had _work_ to do.

With a soft groan, you stretched and let yourself flop off the mattress. You weren’t as graceful as Zeus was about it, but it was effective nonetheless. After a quick trip to the restroom, you set about making yourself a brunch. Nothing fancy, but you felt in sore need of something substantial.

You ran over your plans for the day as you whisked up some eggs, knowing you’d need to ask about wood putty at the hardware store because you’d never actually used it before. Did it have to dry? Would you need to pack it into the grooves before sanding it down? Would the primer and paint stick to it differently than the wood? There was no point in using the putty if the words were still visible in the paint.

You were just finishing your omelet, musing about just looking it up online yourself, when you heard a knock on your door. You froze, confused and fighting down dread, before turning off the burner and quietly making your way to the door. You automatically looked through the peephole, even knowing you couldn’t see anything through the scraped glass.

With a sigh, you undid the deadbolt but left the chain on, cracking your door just barely enough to peek out — and almost panicked. 

Sawada was glowering at your door. You nearly took a step back, unused to seeing such a dark expression on his face and _shit, your door_. You shut the door and unhooked the chain, opening it farther and hoping to invite him in before he could contemplate the deep gouges in the wood any further.

“How long has this been here?”

No such luck.

“Only a day or two,” you answered, trying to downplay it as much as possible. You’d been so careful not to let anyone know about it, too embarrassed to ask for help. What good would it do anyway? It would probably only get worse if you involved Vittoria or Nico. “I already have the sandpaper,” you were rambling and you knew it and you couldn’t stop yourself, “and the right paint and I was going to get wood putty today and—”

“How many times has this happened?” His voice was sharp, almost as gruff as Grumpy’s could be. You swallowed, watching as Sawada traced his fingers against the jagged _B_ , eyes stormy and angry.

“Why don’t you come inside?” you blurted out.

“Please don’t avoid the question,” Sawada said, finally turning away from the carvings on your door. “You have a bad habit…of…”

He trailed off, blinking at you. You frowned, watching in amazement as a dark blush began to spread across his face. Even his ears were turning a brilliant shade of red. It was almost impressive. He opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again, then covered it with a hand and looked away, clearing his throat.

You looked down and immediately wished you had on something more than a camisole and cotton shorts under your apron. With how high and wide the apron fit on you, it was hard to tell you were wearing any clothes at all beneath. Sawada probably thought you _weren’t_.

Well, shit.

Your head shot back up, mouth sputtering for some explanation. Sawada had recovered quickly, his flush fading and a teasing smirk lifting the edges of his mouth. He was nearly every inch the suave, composed don you were used to, and you did _not_ want to know what snarky little comment was on the verge of slipping out of his mouth.

Hastily, you unknotted the belt and slipped the apron over your head, ignoring the sudden, choked sound Sawada made as you did so, and folded the garment over your arm. You stood there, blushing nearly as heavily as the don had been moments before, and cleared your throat.

You were about to apologize — how or for what you had no idea — when you realized Sawada was now entranced by your pajama bottoms. He blinked again, his blush entirely faded and his lips quirking slightly in a barely-suppressed smile. You glanced down, saw your video-game themed shorts, and closed your eyes against the distinctive little shields and swords, wishing fervently for the ground to swallow you up.

You settled for covering your face with your hands.

“Would you like to sit at the table while I change real quick?” your words were muffled through your fingers, but Sawada must have understood because he answered with a flippant “of course.” His voice was enviously steady.

You turned and all but sprinted for your room, leaving Sawada to close your door. You had never changed clothes so quickly in your life. You almost got tangled in your bra at one point, but managed to throw on jeans and your old college sweater without further trouble.

“I should apologize,” Sawada said, voice vaguely muffled as he closed the door front door. “You, ah, caught me off guard.”

“Apparently,” you said under your breath. Then, because you felt embarrassed and exposed, you raised your voice to a more normal volume to prod, perhaps unfairly, “You didn’t strike me as the blushing type.”

Sawada enunciated each word with great care as he repeated, “You caught me off guard.”

“Yeah, you and me both,” you muttered. Taking a deep breath, you willed your flushed face to cool, wishing for a brief moment that you had some of Sawada’s control, and walked back into your apartment’s main area. You left the door cracked for Zeus out of habit.

Sawada was perched at the kitchen bar/table combo, as agreed, staring at said feline across the living room.

Zeus stared back, distracted from his bird-gazing by this stranger’s entrance. His hackles were already risen, ears flat against his head and golden eyes dilated to almost black.

“Sorry,” you said. You cleared your throat. “Zeus doesn’t like…well, anyone, really.”

Sawada glanced at your clothing with something akin to relief before asking, “No one at all?”

“Well, he likes me,” you said, throwing on an overly cheerful smile. You still hadn’t fully recovered from your earlier embarrassment, though Sawada seemed fully composed again. The bastard. “But I bottle-fed him, so he had no choice.”

Sawada smiled, a little crookedly. It was different from his previous, almost smoldering lopsided smirk; this one was a little…goofy? He gestured toward Zeuz in a large, lazy arc. “So he wasn’t always so big?”

“No,” you laughed. “That was a surprise -- he just kept _growing_.” You pursed your lips at Zeus, who was still staring suspiciously at Sawada, though his ears were perked in your direction. “It was pretty alarming, actually.”

Sawada laughed, but whatever he was about to follow up with was interrupted by his phone. His smile turned wry as he glanced at the screen. “Eat,” he said, gesturing at your cooling omelet, still in its pan. “This may be a while.”

You nodded. “You’re free to use my room if you want privacy.”

You’d honestly rather he not do that — for _several_ reasons, most of which were dainty, personal, and carelessly discarded on your bedroom floor — but you were trying to be courteous. He was a don, after all, and you were…you didn’t even know anymore. You sincerely doubted you were still a Fratelli secretary. But Sawada was already shaking his head, answering the phone in Japanese.

“Right,” you answered, feeling a little silly.

You tried not to — really, you did — but you couldn’t help but watch the play of emotions across Sawada’s face as he spoke on the phone. It was a fascinating array, and you never realized how _expressive_ he was when he wasn’t wearing his polite mask. That…was actually probably why he had a polite mask at all.

You wondered absently if the smoldering, intense bits of him were also part of the mask, or if he had just been teasing you. His blush this morning seemed to imply it was the former, but he’d also admitted that you’d caught him off guard. Which, in itself, sort of just further supported that idea, really.

You ate your omelet as quietly as possible, trying not to watch Sawada as you puzzled out the suddenly open man in front of you, but your eyes were drawn back to him at odd moments. You had no idea what he was saying, but the expressions on his face — pained, exasperated, frustrated, disbelieving, amused, back to exasperated — were like watching one of those homemade flip-books.

At one point, he groaned, resting his head in his hand and casting you a look of such tired resignation that you wanted to pat his shoulder in comfort. You recognized only one thing from his conversation, and only because of how often it was repeated — often as an incredulous plea as though to some unforgiving god — and that was “Hibari.” That was a name, right? You weren’t sure.

Someone knocked on your door while Sawada was mid-sigh, and you set your empty dishes in the sink to answer it. Zeus, whose ears had swiveled to listen to Sawada, flashed from wary curiosity to flat-eared alarm. You sent him an apologetic look, though the cat hardly knew what it meant, and cracked the door to see Gokudera’s scowling face, Yamamoto close behind him.

 “Just a moment,” you said to them, shutting the door to unhook the chain yet again.

You opened the door wide, not bothering with a greeting and simply saying, “He’s on the phone.”

Gokudera grunted, sending a pointed look at your door before meeting your eyes and grumbling a “we’ll talk about _that_ later” almost too quietly for you to catch. Then he was breezing past you to join Sawada at the table. Yamamoto lingered at the entranceway, watching you re-chain the lock and _not_ commenting on your vandalized door. You always knew he was an angel.

“…Did you really _correct_ it?”

Never mind, he was a heathen like the rest of them. You gave him a terse look, both for the comment and his _perfect fucking English_ before leading the way to the kitchen. Sawada paused briefly to greet his companions before immediately returning to the phone call, all in one breath.

“Would you like something to drink?” you asked the others. “I have some juice, milk, water…”

“Soda?” Yamamoto asked, looking hopeful.

You tried not to smile. “No, no soda, sorry.”

He shrugged it off. “There’s more in the car.”

Gokudera muttered something in Japanese, a short biting comment that was probably not flattering to Yamamoto, though the taller man just laughed in response. Gokudera was eyeing your apartment, taking in the windows, the doors, the layout — probably looking for vulnerabilities, exits, anything he may need if the situation changed. You took his lack of response to be a negative on the drink.

 “Ooh!” Yamamoto sounded almost childlike. “Is this the giant cat?”

He approached Zeus, who was looking personally offended by the presence of these men in the apartment.

“Um— I wouldn’t— Don’t—!” Too late. Yamamoto’s long legs meant he was across the small apartment in only a few strides, and he was well within striking distance by the time your warning registered.

Yamamoto, becoming abruptly less confident in his animal whispering abilities, yelped and narrowly dodged the swipe of a massive, clawed paw. Zeus was in full arch, fur puffed up as high as it would go and making him look larger by half. He hissed, a growling yowl the epitome of feline affront, and then leapt from the shelf and ran to your room. He paused briefly in the doorway, just long enough to turn, spit viciously in Yamamoto’s direction, and then disappear inside, likely taking refuge under your bed.

Gokudera was nearly in hysterics, his eruption of laughter jolting you out of your horror. You apologized profusely, but Yamamoto waved you off with a sheepish laugh, saying “my fault, my fault.”

You tried to protest. Your cat had attacked him and while you were very confident in his ability to dodge a feline considering he’d dodged a goddamned bullet, it was the principle of the matter. But Yamamoto just patted your shoulder, gentle and soothing in that strange way he had.

“ _Maa, maa_ ,” he said, and you had no idea what that meant. “He didn’t even land the hit. It’s fine — promise!”

He wandered back to the kitchen to sit next to Gokudera, who looked completely different without his usual constipated disgruntlement. His eyes were almost sparkling, thoroughly enjoying himself at his friend’s expense. Yamamoto took it in stride, scratching the back of his head and chuckling along with Gokudera.

You looked to Sawada, nervous —your cat had attacked the don’s man, after all — but he was still speaking on the phone. The fond smile on his face as he watched his two companions start to bicker in Japanese was probably a good sign, though. He caught your eyes on him, and his smile spread into a wide, happy grin. You suddenly felt out of breath.

Sawada’s smile, when he actually cared to _really smile_ , was deadly.

You swallowed, feeling uncomfortable and a bit warm, and mumbled something about wanting a glass of water. You turned to get yourself one, taking longer than you needed to fetch the glass and pour the water, lingering to sip slowly.

“Okay!” Sawada said, disconnecting his call with a relieved huff.

Gokudera asked him something in Japanese, and he responded with a tired laugh, saying something about “Hibari” again. Gokudera immediately grimaced, and Yamamoto burst out laughing. You turned your stare onto your glass, trying not to pay attention.

The tableau of the three of them felt strangely intimate, like you were seeing beneath the veil of don and his men to what was undoubtedly a long-held friendship. It felt…awkward. Intrusive.

Sawada called your name, and you allowed your gaze to lift to his. “Yes?”

“Sorry about that,” he said. “I’m afraid it could not wait.”

“Of course,” you answered immediately, setting aside your glass and getting down to business. “So, how can I help you?”

Sawada’s smile turned sheepish. “I wanted to speak with you,” he said, “about my… _talks_ with Fratelli.”

You immediately stiffened, automatically preparing for the worst. You nodded for him to continue, keeping yourself composed and carefully blank.

“I had wanted to settle this yesterday,” he continued, “but we were interrupted.”

Gokudera snorted at his phrasing and muttered something under his breath. Yamamoto murmured something back and got smacked upside the head for his trouble. He didn’t react other than grin at Gokudera, who seemed to take it as a personal insult.

Sawada ignored them both and, looking a bit apologetic, said, “I…took the liberty of answering for you,” and some of that polite stiffness filtered back into his posture as he raised a hand, as if forestalling a protest. You didn’t feel all that prepared to give one. “But it was necessary, and I believe to mutual benefit.”

You nodded again, striving for calm. It didn’t make sense for them to kill you now. Sawada had been unnecessarily kind to you, too kind if he had agreed to make you disappear. You had to hold onto that logic. _It didn’t make sense for them to kill you now._

But you knew how the mafia worked, knew how Don Fratelli worked, and you knew better than to rely on logic. Dons could do whatever they pleased, and it never had to make sense to anyone but themselves. And Don Fratelli had made no secret his feelings regarding you.

“Please stop looking like that.” The polite distance drained out of Sawada, and he looked weary, maybe even a little sad. It was…an unexpected expression.

“Like what?” you asked, clinging to that professional mask of neutrality you had spent years cultivating.

Sawada sighed. “You go very… _blank_ when you’re upset,” he said, gesturing at you as though to wipe something away. “Very still. Like you’re not really there.” He met your eyes, that concerned frown in full bloom. “I promise, we’re not here to hurt you.”

“I know,” you said, feeling self-conscious at his words. “It wouldn’t make sense. The…logic doesn’t work.”

Sawada nodded, encouraging.

“I’m just….” You knew you should shut up, but Sawada was giving you that wide open look and you just blurted, “I’m used to these talks going very poorly.”

Sawada’s expression turned grim, but he nodded again. “I imagine so.” He hesitated, then reached into his jacket and pulled out a slim USB drive. He set it carefully on the tabletop, and you eyed it suspiciously. Sawada watched you carefully, like he knew you would dislike what he was about to say but he was going to say it anyway. He was right.

“I’ve…reviewed your file,” Sawada said, idly toying with the thumb-drive. You jerked back like the small device was a snake before you tamped down on your reaction. Sawada continued, eyes still on the drive and if he’d noticed you flinch away, his face betrayed nothing. “Nico and his sources in the police department made sure it’s the _only_ file left. Part of Fratelli’s agreement, but one I agreed to easily.”

His gaze finally rose to meet yours, but your face was burning and you broke eye contact almost immediately. Of course Don Fratelli would want the file gone, for Dominic’s sake more than yours. And you knew that Sawada knew about it — how could he not? — but you had still hoped he would never actually bring it up to you. You hated that he knew. You hated that you felt ashamed of it.

You were not embarrassed about how you handled the situation. Mafia machismo be damned — you had defended yourself against an assault. And calling the cops was stupid, yes, but it kept you alive and you were willing to bear the consequences of that choice. But…you had a hard time suppressing your knee-jerk reaction — the humiliation of being caught out as a victim, as one of _those women_.

You took a deep breath and forced your eyes back to Sawada, jaw firm and chin raised. It was stupid to feel ashamed, you knew that. But for right now, you needed to focus on what was right in front of you. And currently, that was a very dangerous man who knew quite a lot about you and, inexplicably, was being very kind to you. You weren’t sure you trusted it, to be honest.

Sawada met your gaze steadily, and after a moment, a slow, pleased smile spread across his face. “I want to hire you,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“Fratelli is concerned about how _close_ you are to his heirs,” Sawada said. “As well as your brush with the police. He’s not sure what to do with you, so I’ve offered to take you on.”

You gaped at him for an excruciating span of time. What he said about Fratelli wasn’t news to you, especially not after yesterday, and you sincerely doubted that Fratelli harbored any uncertainties about ‘what to do’ with you. He’d made _that_ clear yesterday, too.

But that last bit was still difficult to wrap your head around. Sawada wanted to _hire you_? For what? And why? It didn’t add up, but you needed to stop staring at him like a landed fish and say something already.

“But I’m — I mean, I’m not…” You trailed off and gestured helplessly, as though your hands could magically finish that sentence for you.

“You’re very smart,” Sawada said, smoothly filling the silence after your shock took over again. “You’re professional — mostly,” he grinned, “even under duress, and you’re competent. I’ve read some of your old reports; they’re good, and you come highly recommended by several sources.” You could guess who they were—all of them eighteen or under except Vittoria. “Not to mention you handled yourself well yesterday.”

You shot him an incredulous look, flicking your gaze to Yamamoto. Did Sawada not know about your complete breakdown in your office? No, he _had_ to know; he’d seen you afterwards and you knew that _he knew_.

“The Vongola very rarely have…encounters like that in the manor.” Sawada smiled, like the statement was amusing somehow, and added: “At least outside of friendly fire.”

“And that shit on your door won’t happen again,” Gokudera groused before you could dwell on that last comment. He gave you a hard look, and you immediately frowned at him. Was he blaming you for that?

“I was going to fix it,” you said, sending his flinty gaze right back at him. “I always do.”

“I think the point is you shouldn’t have to,” Yamamoto chimed in, watching the conversation with his ever-present smile.

“Nor should you receive...graphic threats in your mailbox,” Sawada added, face twisting a bit like he’d tasted something sour.

 “I called the cops on a made man,” you said. The words were matter-of-fact, like saying ‘rain falls from the sky’ or ‘clouds are made from water vapor.’ “I knew there would be consequences.”

Gokudera snorted. “ _I’ve_ called the fucking cops on assholes,” he said. “It’s an effective tool sometimes.” He gave you a pointed look. “You were just _sloppy_ about it.”

“I was concussed,” you said, returning the look without hesitation. Your tone skirted the line between irate and downright rude.

“So?”

Your mouth opened before your brain fully registered it. “I’m sorry, do you _not_ know what a concussion is?”

Yamamoto was outright snickering now, and you felt the rational part of your brain send up a faint plea to _please stop back-talking the Vongola Right-Fucking-Hand_. Anxiety fluttered briefly in your diaphragm before Gokudera was huffing like it was nothing, his expression a touch snide as he said, “You think that’s an excuse? I get concussed all the time and I still don’t fuck up like that.”

“I don’t think you should be so proud of that,” you said, feeling almost buzzed with relief. You had _definitely_ been spending too much time around these men.

Sawada hummed, effectively interrupting the conversation. He shared a quick smile with Yamamoto, looking like a proud parent, and before you could question what _that_ was about, he tapped the USB and brought your attention back to the matter at hand.

“Be that as it may, I think you would be a great asset to us,” Sawada said. “And, for the record: I do not believe you…stepped out of _place_.”

You flashed a look to Yamamoto. The smile he sent your way was particularly innocent. The dirty _eavesdropper_.

You turned your frown to the USB drive, sitting innocuously at Sawada’s fingertips. You didn’t know how much was on there. Probably everything. The police report, the 911 call, hospital records, the embarrassing photos the investigators had insisted on taking to catalogue your injuries. Hell, Nico had probably slapped his voicemails in there, too, if Sawada had really asked for everything.

“What would you even have me do?” you asked, meeting Sawada’s patient gaze.

The don shrugged. “I need a secretary. My current one is…” He grimaced. “We’ll say, leftover from the previous generation. He wants to retire about as much as I want him to — which is a great deal.”

Yamamoto laughed. “Pretty sure Nono got him as a leftover, too.” He flashed you a conspiratorial grin. “He’s _ancient_.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Gokudera sniped. You felt like that was a statement he usually received more often than he gave, but managed not to comment this time.

“He did a good job for the last regime,” Gokudera went on. “But we’re moving in a new direction.”

“A little less illegal dealings,” Sawada picked up where his right hand left off, “a little more protecting the people.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that. “That sounds…idealistic.” And too good to be true, if you were honest.

Gokudera scowled. “Idealistic or not, we’re making it happen — _Decimo_ is making it happen. And we need his personal aid to not be such a fucking dinosaur about changing times.”

You raised your brows at him. “Don’t be an ass.”

You almost cringed a second later, brain catching up to your mouth a bit too late. Just because they’d let you get away with it before was no guarantee they’d do so again. You’d learned caution after Dominic, after Fratelli.

But Yamamoto practically howled with laughter, and when you dared a glance, Gokudera was wearing his constipated face but was otherwise still not retaliating to your back sass.

Sawada was grinning widely, that broad happy smile that did strange things to your lungs. “See? You’ll be a great fit,” he said. “You already get along so well with two of my guardians.”

You had no clue what he meant by ‘guardians’ — there was no way these two men raised Sawada, though you could already tell that they bickered like an old married couple. You stared at Sawada’s smile, not missing that he was acting like you’d already accepted, and knew you were a goner before you even opened your mouth again.

“Before I answer, one question.” When Sawada nodded for you to go on, you asked, “Do I really have a choice?”

Sawada’s face softened at the edges, just a bit. “Not as much as I would like to give you,” he confessed. “We could find an alternate placement — we have branches that are always in need of good administrators. But I won’t force you into my Family. I want you as my ally, not my prisoner.”

You stared at him for a time — you’re not sure how long — before you took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay,” you said. “Okay. So am I leaving with you Monday, then?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick comment - periphvna left a lovely little mini-analysis that I had to address, but it ended up being this long, lore-building thing so I left it on tumblr. In short: yes, the Golden Trio is (mostly unconsciously) influencing the MC in certain, relatively minor ways. Though, they do sometimes do it intentionally, because shenanigans.
> 
> Otherwise WE MADE IT. 2 Days left before the Vongola leave -- and take a new employee with them. Vittoria's gonna be pissed not to see MC Monday. Theo will be heartbroken, but he was also kind of trying to make this happen so... Expect a lot of long-distance phone calls and poorly-concealed pining in the future.
> 
> NEXT ARC: Welcome to Italy
> 
> Highlight: MC meets Reborn at some point. This is also a low point. 
> 
> THANK YOU EVERYONE! Commenters, kudos-leavers, all of y'all are great! <3 See you in the next arc!


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